Due Monk
by Bob Wright
Summary: America's favorite defective detective heads to Chicago and teams up with Canada's favorite exported Mountie on a very personal case. NOW COMPLETED.
1. An Old Friend Vanishes

DUE MONK

BY

BOB WRIGHT

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's the story I know you all want. Some of you've already written your own, well-done versions of it. This is mine, and what better way to tell it by crossing Monk over with the TV cop who could understand him better than any other. Indeed, Due South has a lot in common with Monk on a number of levels (well, except for ratings), so it's a natural fit.

Admittedly, this story might take an indefinite period to write. I want it to be absolutely perfect.

My apologies for not putting Adrian in this first chapter directly, but I'd like to keep with custom and show the cadaver first.

Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of Mandeville Films, USA Network, and Touchstone TV. Due South and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of Alliance Atlantis. And now, sit back, relax and enjoy the story.

ONE

"So Ray, how have things been since we last spoke?" Constable Benton Fraser, R.C.M.P., asked his associate as they drove through the busy streets of Chicago."

"Pretty good, Benny, pretty good," Detective Ray Vecchio told the Mountie, "Stella and I'll be married in about two months, so when you go back up North, tell Kowalski thanks. How does he like Canada anyway?"

"He's adjusting rather well," Fraser said, "I managed to get him a small cabin outside of Yellowknife. He's really taking to private life rather well."

"Well, the only wilds I'll ever really like are the urban kinds," Vecchio said, "And I'd like to thank you for putting down the money to replace my car after the two of you blew it up."

"Well you see, Ray, the fire didn't look too bad at the time, and it's very rare that a car actually explodes, so it didn't look like too much of a danger at the time, but then all of a sudden the hood blows off, and…" Fraser explained.

"Don't give the fine details," Vecchio interrupted, "That was another mint condition 1971 Buick Riviera you've destroyed since I met you. It's almost like your karma in life to wreck my cars." After a brief silence, the detective asked, "So, how long are you down here this time?"

"I've got a three week respite from duty," Fraser explained, "It's not as long as I would have wished, but it's reasonable enough."

"The wolf couldn't make it?" Vecchio continued asking.

"Diefenbaker's with his mate and young tonight," Fraser told him, "You'll probably see him tomorrow or so." He turned to face his old friend. "And I must admit," he said, "It's nice to see you in person again, Ray."

Vecchio couldn't help smiling. "I've missed you too, Fraser," he said. He pulled his current Riviera over to the curb. "Here we go, Unos," the cop said, hopping out, "I think it's time we introduce you to several American dishesor at least should be American."

"Yes, but the fact is many of them aren't," Fraser said, putting on his Stetson as he climbed out, "Indeed, these were frequent Italian dishes for…"

Just then there came a shrill woman's scream from around the corner. The two men looked at each other. Fraser took off running while Vecchio was still reacting. "Take your hands off him!" the woman was screaming. A child's cries were also mixing in. Too late the Mountie turned the corner, though, to see a gray Ford peeling off into the night. A man ran up to him. "Are you a cop?" he asked breathlessly.

"Yes, I happen to be," Fraser said, "Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"What's going on here, Fraser?" Vecchio rounded the corner.

"They took my wife and son!" the man said in a hyper voice.

"Who are they, sir?" Fraser inquired.

"I don't know!" the man cried, "I have no idea!"

"I see," Fraser said. He turned to Vecchio. "We'd better call this in, Ray."

"So Mr. Fleming, you're absolutely sure you have no idea who the kidnappers were?" Vecchio asked an hour or so later back at the precinct.

"I've told you at least nine times, they were wearing ski masks!" the victimized husband said, his head in his hands.

"We understand," Fraser said, taking hold of the man's hand.

"Vecchio," Lieutenant Harding Welsh stuck his head out his office door, "Like to talk to you in private."

"Sure thing, Lieutenant," Vecchio rose to his feet and walked off. "Now Trevor," Fraser told the husband, "Why don't you run down the events of this evening for our benefit. How long have you been here in Chicago?"

"About two weeks now," the man told him, "We came over from New Jersey to visit my aunt; she's on life support. At Metro General."

"I see, and was there anything out of the ordinary that happened so far during the trip?"

"No, not at all," Trevor admitted, "It's been really quiet in fact. There certainly wasn't anything to suggest…"

He sighed, looking miserable. "What were you doing this evening?" Fraser asked him.

"I suggested we go to a movie tonight," Trevor told him, "We'd just gotten out and were walking home. As we were turning the corner around Unos, that car came out of nowhere. It all happened so fast. About four of them grabbed Benjy. Sharona tried to stop them, but they took her too. It was over before I could do anything. I just feel so guilty."

"I wouldn't be so hard on yourself, Trevor," Fraser patted his shoulder, "If it did happen as you say, there would have been little you could have done."

"It's more than that, Constable," Trevor sighed, "I just got back together with them a couple of months ago. I made so many mistakes in my life and lost them several times before, and now that I'm finally a changed man, I'm going to lose them again."

"You won't lose them, Trevor," Fraser said, looking him right in his eyes, "I promise you we'll get your wife and son back."

"And it looks like we'll have other people working with us, Fraser," Vecchio plopped back down next to the Mountie, "Welsh was on the phone for a half hour with San Francisco. It seems Fleming's wife had a number of influential friends with the S.F.P.D. They're sending several of them over to help in the investigation."

"Are they sending Adrian Monk?" Trevor now looked quite interested.

"Monk, Monk, yeah, I think Welsh mentioned someone with a name like that," Vecchio nodded, "We're supposed to meet them at O'Hare tomorrow at 11."

"Very interesting," Fraser said, "You know Ray, I've always been interested in meeting a law enforcement official from San Francisco. In all kinds of American media they're depicted of being excessively violent and uncaring toward human well being. It will be interesting to see just how realistic that stereotype is."


	2. Mr Monk Takes Chicago

TWO

"We're turning too far, we're definitely turning too far, I think we're going to go into a spiral!" Adrian Monk started moaning as Southwest Airlines Flight 933 moved abruptly to starboard, "Hold my wrist tighter!"

"Mr. Monk, I can't possibly hold your wrist any tighter than I am now!" a fed-up Natalie Teeger groaned, "And we're not crashing, we're just banking around so they'll be in position to land. Now I'm sure you want our approach to the runway to be perfectly right up the middle, am I right?"

"Well, yes, but…"

"Then just live with the banking, OK?" Natalie slumped back in her seat, "I swear, I'm glad this flight is almost over. You've been on edge ever since we started taxing for takeoff in San Francisco. I'd go crazy if this went on another half hour!"

Adrian didn't respond. He stared straight ahead at the rest of coach—they were still too high up in the air for him to dare to look out the window. He'd gotten the call about Sharona at about six thirty the previous night, and despite his great dislike of air travel had immediately dropped everything—in this instance including a high profile strangling case the mayor had wanted him to look into—to come look into her disappearance. He prayed she and Benjy were safe wherever they were now.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen," the pilot announced over the loudspeaker, "We'll be making our final approach to Chicago O'Hare in about five minutes. At this time please turn off all cell phones and make sure your try tables are in their upright and locked positions. We'd also like to remind the passenger in seat 19E that if he presses the assistance button one more time during the flight, he'll be pitched out the door without a parachute. Thank you and enjoy your stay in Chicago."

"Boy, I'd hate to be the person sitting in that seat," Adrian naively commented.

"He's talking about YOU, Monk," Captain Leland Stottlemeyer said on the former detective's other side.

"Really?" Adrian frowned, "I thought we were in section 17?"

"It's 18, it says it right up there," Natalie pointed at the very clearly marked seat notices above them.

"I had legitimate grievances," Adrian said in self-defense, "The leg room on this plane is inadequate, the water tastes funny, the pillows aren't soft enough, the…"

"Hey Captain," Lieutenant Randall Disher leaned over the aisle to talk to his superior, "If we can wrap this up quickly, why don't we head up to Shermer for a day or two?"

"Where?" Stottlemeyer was completely confused.

"You know, it's that little suburb outside of Chicago where all of John Hughes's films take place," Disher asked matter of factually, "You've never seen Sixteen Candles?"

"You're into Sixteen Candles?" Natalie seemed surprised Disher would express interest in such a primary female film.

"Well, maybe that's not the best example," Disher said quickly.

"Randy, you do know they're only movies," Stottlemeyer pointed out.

"I wished I could be Ferris Bueller, if only for a day," Adrian said to nobody in particular, "He had it all going for him. And everybody liked him too."

There was a low bump as the plane touched down at O'Hare and slowed down. "Please remain seated until we come to a complete stop at the gate," the stewardess announced, "This does not apply to the passenger in seat 19E, who will be getting off first."

"Huh?" Adrian looked puzzled. Numerous plane staffers gathered around his seat without warning. "You're, you're supposed to stay seated until we come to a complete stop," he told them, not liking the looks on their faces.

"Take off your seatbelt, sir, you're getting off first," the head stewardess ordered him. When Adrian didn't even move a muscle, she bent down, took it off herself, and hauled the detective to his feet. "You insult the way we cook our food!" she thundered as she dragged him toward the door, "You tell me I buttoned my blouse wrong! You questioned whether or not we should test the emergency chutes while the plane's in the air! Well sir, you're not getting on my flight again!"

"You're stretching the fibers!" Adrian protested, uncomfortable with how she was holding his shirt collar.

Another stewardess opened the plane door as it came to a stop by the gate. Her superior tossed Adrian physically into the causeway, receiving loud applause from the rest of the plane for doing this. Adrian picked himself up and dusted himself off. He slowly trudged toward the end of the gate. O'Hare was crowded for so early in the morning. Even so, he was able to make out in the crowd a sign with his name on it. "I'm Adrian Monk," he announced out loud, walking toward it.

"Adrian Monk, Detective Ray Vecchio, I've been assigned to the Fleming case," Vecchio shook Adrian's hand before he could do anything about it. Adrian forced a happy face and glanced back up the gate; why was it taking everyone else so long to get off?

"Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I'm working with Detective Vecchio," the Mountie shook Adrian's hand as well, "I remember you, Mr. Monk; you were on that Jeopardy episode that almost got bombed."

"Yeah, that was me," Adrian looked even more uncomfortable now, "One of the few happy experiences of my life."

"Funny though," Fraser commented, "I thought they'd amended the rule so that a champion can play as long as they win, and yet you still left after five days as per the old guidelines."

"That was the director's idea," Adrian told him, "He said if he had to do one more show with me, he'd jump off the studio roof. He's a nice guy; I wouldn't want him to do that. Is there any place here that sells medicated wipes? I really need one now."

"Medicated wipes?" Vecchio frowned, "What the hell do you need those for?"

"Ray, Mr. Monk here suffers from a standard case of obsessive compulsive disorder," Fraser informed the cop, "It was made abundantly clear by Alex Trebek during his five day stint on Jeopardy."

"Oh great, so we're going to be working with a fruitcake?" Vecchio blurted out. Noticing the discomfort this statement brought Adrian's face, Fraser took his associate aside and said, "Actually, what you said is a generalization, Ray. Most obsessive compulsive persons, despite their handicap, have complete control over their mental functions, and I do believe that Lieutenant Welsh said that Mr. Monk is one of the best detectives out there."

"So in other words, he's brilliant but still a fruitcake," Vecchio summarized.

"Could you please try to be a little more politically correct, Ray; this man is going to help us one the case, after all," Fraser stressed. Vecchio shrugged and said, "Sure, I guess I'll buy it, but he'd better not embarrass me in front of Welsh."

"There you are, Monk," came Stottlemeyer's voice from behind them, "Are these the people we'll be working with?"

"Yeah, Detective Ray Vecchio, and this is my I guess now official sidekick Constable Benton Fraser," Vecchio introduced them, "You are…?"

"Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, San Francisco Police, this is Lieutenant Disher and Miss Teeger," Stottlemeyer introduced his associates, "You brought Monk up to speed on what you've got?"

"We were just about to do that," Fraser told them as they started walking down the concourse toward the baggage carousels, "Detective Vecchio's car's out front. We're to take you all to the scene of the crime. Having been told that Detective Monk is one of the finest law enforcement officials around when it comes to seeing things at a crime scene that few others can see, I'd like to here his interpretation of what transpired last night. In the mean time, I'd like to offer all of you lodging at my new residence. I've discussed it with the landlord, and he's more than willing to rent out his empty rooms to you. Are there any questions?"

"So you're really a Mountie?" Disher asked with just a tinge of boyish glee.

"Yes, I am," Fraser told him, "I have over fifteen years of experience with the R.C.M.P."

"Pardon my asking, then, but what are you doing so far south, then?" Stottlemeyer had to ask.

"Well, it's a very long and complicated story, one that would take about two hours and thirty-seven minutes to tell," Fraser said, "The long and short of it is that I was sent here to Chicago on the trial of my father's killers and for reasons that do not need explaining at this juncture was stationed as a liaison at the Canadian Consulate until recently, when I returned to Canada. Currently, I'm on a vacation here and was thus available to assist in this investigation."

They'd reached the carousel for their flight, which was just starting to spit out the baggage. It was Vecchio who first noticed something out of the ordinary. "Holy mother of God, Detective Monk, how many suitcases did you bring?" he exclaimed, noticing the high amount of suitcases with Adrian's name on them."

"About thirty-five, maybe thirty-six, I'm not completely sure," Adrian told him.

"What the hell've you got…?" Vecchio tossed Adrian's luggage on the ground and opened them up one by one. "Shrink wrapped clothes, Sierra Springs, more Sierra Springs, food, more clothes, medicines, wipes, wipes, more wipes, even more wipes, dust mask, soap, soap, more soap, distilled water, portable vacuum, disinfectant,…A RADIATION SUIT?" he gave Adrian a very bizarre glance.

"I like to cover all the bases," Adrian said, closing up several of the suitcases that had been opened, "And they're saying the bird flu might become a pandemic; this is my best protection in cases it spreads here while I'm here."

"I told him he didn't need that much," Natalie told the Chicago cop, "He wouldn't listen."

"Well, I think we can probably fit all this in with a little rearranging," Fraser said optimistically.

"Oh sure, if I had nine trunks in my car," Vecchio muttered sarcastically.

"All right then, why don't we just go check out the scene of the crime?" Fraser asked quickly.

* * *

"What's he doing?" a disbelieving Vecchio asked Stottlemeyer about a half hour later at the crime scene. Adrian was walking around, occasionally making bizarre gestures with his hands.

"He's doing his thing," the captain told the detective, "I can't explain it any more than you can, but it works most of the time."

"Well his 'thing' sure looks a lot like a professional mime show if you ask me," Vecchio snorted.

"Sharona talked about his style all the time," said Trevor, who'd been brought in to verify anything Adrian might have found at the scene, "Although it sometimes got to her, she found it amazing. As do I."

Adrian stepped into the street and made a grabbing motion several times toward the sidewalk. "Was this where they grabbed them, Trevor?" he spoke for what had to be the first time since they arrived.

"Yes, I believe so," Trevor told him, "I was standing over there by that grate. It was over before I could stop them."

"And you say they grabbed Benjy first?" Adrian inquired, now making a dragging motion of sorts.

"Yes. Is that significant, Mr. Monk?"

"It could very well be," Adrian hopped back up onto the curb, "Which direction did they come from?"

"Around that corner," Trevor pointed.

"They weren't going terribly fast," Fraser pointed out, "I heard only a moderate squealing of tires before Mrs. Fleming screamed."

"Interesting," Adrian sauntered around the corner. He stopped at about the fourth parking meter down. "They were waiting here," he announced, "For a good forty minutes."

"How can you tell that, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"There's about three Pall Mall cigarettes on the curb there; they're clearly only a day or two old," Adrian pointed to the evidence in question. Fraser bent down and sniffed them, much to Adrian's disgust. "He's right," the Mountie confirmed, "They're Pall Malls."

"Whoever did the kidnapping last night knew you'd be coming this way, Trevor, "Adrian told the husband, "They were here waiting for you to come by. Who did you tell you were taking them to a movie?"

"Nobody, Mr. Monk, that's the thing," Trevor told him, "I only thought came up with it at lunch and discussed it with Sharona there. She agreed it was a good idea."

"Well somebody HAD to know, Trevor," Fraser said, "Otherwise we wouldn't be standing here wondering who took your wife and son."

"I swear I told no one else," Trevor raised his hand as if under oath.

"Whoever did plan this knew it and knew it well," Adrian continued, "This abduction was well thought out and executed."

"I calculate it was only about eleven seconds, judging from my own observations last night, between the beginning of the abduction and the kidnappers' getaway," Fraser said, "Did Mrs. Fleming have any enemies?"

"Probably only the people she and Mr. Monk helped to arrest," Disher said, "And we checked; they're all safely behind bars and without access to anyone here in Chicago."

"So it's probably someone we've never come across yet," Stottlemeyer surmised, "That makes it a little harder. Anything else here, Monk?"

"No Captain, not much else," Adrian said, "But at least we have a start."

"Well then, we'll go down to the station and see if we've got any leads on that gray Ford," Vecchio said, "That's the biggest other lead we've got now."

"Good, then I can go call my daughter and tell her we've landed," Natalie said.

"Sounds good," Fraser said, "Her name's Julie, right?"

"How'd you know that?" Natalie was amazed.

"I noticed her name on the social security card you gave the rental car agent for identification purposes," the Mountie explained, "And her photo in your wallet. Quite an attractive young woman. I've never had a daughter of my own, but if I did, I'd like her to look like yours."

"Why thank you," Natalie smiled.

"It's nothing, he'd say it to anyone, "Vecchio told her, "One of the pitfalls of being the world's nicest person. In the meantime, why don't we drop of the inventory of Detective Monk's extended yard sale?"

"I'd be happy to do so, Ray," Fraser volunteered, "Besides, it's about time I picked up Diefenbaker anyway."

"Diefenbaker?" Adrian asked.

"Yes, he's my wolf," Fraser told him.

"Wolf?" Adrian expression went very far south, "You own a wolf?"

"Yes, and I have the license to make it legal," Fraser said, "Why don't you come with me while we drop your stuff off?"

* * *

"Stop, stop, please stop!" Adrian pleaded later with Diefenbaker, who was licking his face incessantly as they drove into Fraser's current neighborhood.

"He won't be cognicent of your words, Detective Monk," Fraser told him, "He went deaf pulling me out of Prince William Sound several years ago."

"Well, that's a real tragedy," Adrian said, grimacing heavily, "I should probably tell you, Constable, I'm not really all that good with animals."

"I could surmise as much during our car ride," Fraser said, "But most people with your condition wouldn't be, so I understand completely and will make whatever accommodations are needed during your stay here."

"Thank you, thank you very much," Adrian said, "And in that case, I should point out, I'll need to sleep on the bed; no couch or floor, I just can't do that."

"That is not a problem at all," Fraser said, "I frequently sleep on the floor at any rate. I should point out, though, that Dief normally takes the bed when I don't."

"That's not too big a deal," Adrian said, "I brought my own sheets, and backup sheets too. If you don't mind me saying, you're taking my requests rather well. I mean, most people would be up in arms when I made these kinds of requests."

"Well, I believe strongly in tolerance toward people with disabilities," Fraser said. He pulled over to the curb. "And here we are."

"Oh my God!" Adrian grimaced at the run-down state of Fraser's current apartment, "This is a nightmare!"

"Well, it's not the most homely of places, but since my needs are simple, it suffices," Fraser said. Noticing that this didn't make Adrian feel any better, he said, "I'm guessing that you'll want to stay and clean up my apartment so it fits your standards a little more?"

"Absolutely," Adrian hopped out of the car and dragged three suitcases which he'd labeled CRITICAL: OPEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER ARRIVING toward the building. "Dief, stay in the car, I'll be out in a minute," Fraser told his wolf as he got out himself. Noticing the bizarre expression on Diefenbaker's face, the Mountie said, "Yes, I know he's a bit strange as per what you're used to, but he's a good man, so we'll just have to put up with whatever he does, understood?"

Diefenbaker made a bit of a nodding gesture, albeit somewhat reluctantly. Fraser withdrew two more suitcases from the trunk and followed Adrian into the building. "I'm on the second floor, Apartment 8L," he told the former detective."

"Thanks," Adrian called down. He waited at the apartment in question until Fraser came to open the door. "The phone is on the counter over there if you need to call me about anything," the Mountie pointed to it, "Just got it installed the other day. Is there anything else I could get you while I'm here?"

Adrian looked up from the outlet, where he had been plugging his vacuum in. "Actually, yes, but it's not related to germs or dirt or this apartment," he said, "You haven't…in the time you've been here, I mean,…come across anything concerning a six-fingered man?"

"Why no, Detective Monk, I can't say I have," Fraser admitted.

"Oh," Adrian shrugged, "Just thought you might have. He's now the prime suspect in my wife's murder, that's all."

"Yes, Captain Stottlemeyer told me how important that case is to you," Fraser said, walking over to him, "If I'd been married to a woman of a nature such as your unfortunately late wife was, I'd be as determined to find the perpetrator as you are. And he also told me how much Mrs. Fleming has meant to you as well."

"Yes, she has," Adrian grew very somber, "During the period after Trudy died, I was really adrift. Sharona came in almost like a dove on a summer breeze. She was the thing, more than anything, that helped get me back out of my slump. When she told me she was moving back to New Jersey, it broke the carefully tuned structure of the world I'd been trying to put back together. At first I wanted to tell her not to, that I still needed her, but then I realized that I wanted her to be happy, and if remarrying Trevor was going to give her that happiness, I wouldn't stand in her way." He sighed deeply and looked around for a place to sit down, but finding none readily available, squatted as best he could. "It was so hard to adjust to life without her," he went on, "Part of me tried to pretend she wasn't gone. Early on after I hired Natalie, I'd call her Sharona by accident a lot. It was that hard to let go. Even though I'm used to her now, it still just doesn't feel the same. I hope you can understand all that."

"As a matter of fact, Adrian, I know exactly what you're going through," Fraser squatted down to Adrian's level, "You see, when I first came south to Chicago, I became fast associates with Detective Vecchio. We did a number of interesting, often exciting things together. He was almost like a brother I never had. Then two years ago I came back from Canada to find he'd been transferred to Las Vegas on some high profile case, and I'd have to partner with someone else—Stanley Kowalski was his name. At first I had the same difficulty adjusting to a new face, even though I didn't admit it openly, but in time I grew to accept Detective Kowalski, and we're now just as close as I am with Detective Vecchio. I think if you'll give it some time, you'll probably come to like Miss Teeger as much as you did Mrs. Fleming."

"Well, Constable, the problem is, you're you and I'm me," Adrian said, "I really can't handle change, any change."

"You know, Detective Monk," Fraser started to put his hand on Adrian's shoulder, but realized this probably wasn't the best of ideas, "When I was seven, my father told me something important. Well, actually he told me two things, but I can't remember the other right now. But anyway, the one I do remember is that, in the ultimate of ironies, change is the only constant in human existence. It will always come about, often when we least expect it, and admittedly many times not for the best. But we can either run from it and deny that it's happening—in doing which we deny ourselves—or we can accept it and try to build positively off it. As for your past relationship with Mrs. Fleming, my advice, offered in the most sincerest way, is to, instead of focusing on the fact that she's no longer a permanent part of your life, remember the important times you did have with her and treasure them close, because memories, especially positive ones, will get you through even the most difficult of times. Much as I did when I had to go through the exact same experience as you have."

"I'll, I'll guess I'll give that a try," Adrian said, almost smiling, "I don't know if it'll work, but I guess I'll try."

"Good for you," Fraser nodded, "Well, I guess I'd better get back to the precinct and see how Detective Vecchio and your associates are making out on the case," he said, rising to his feet, "I'll put the rest of your items on the sidewalk out front and have the landlord bring them up for you. Remember, just call if you need me, Detective Monk."

"You can call me Adrian," the detective said, "You've earned it. Just bring me up to speed when you're done today."

"Thank you kindly, I will," Fraser tipped his Stetson, "Good luck in your redesigning."

"You're welcome," Adrian nodded. Once Fraser had walked out, he turned on the vacuum and started doing the apartment's corner. He could see he had a long hard haul ahead of himself.


	3. In the Squad Room

THREE

"So you finally made it, Monk," Stottlemeyer said as his friend walked into the squad room, "I guess moving in took quicker than I'd expected."

"Oh, I'm not quite finished yet," Adrian said, "I still have to clean out the tub and get the dirt off the walls. I did rearrange all the books alphabetically, though, and the floor's almost done."

"See Fraser, by the time he's done it won't be your apartment anymore," Vecchio cracked from his desk

"I don't mind Ray," Fraser looked up from a list of license plate numbers he'd been going through, "I was going to do a little cleaning of my own, and thanks to Detective Monk my job is now a whole lot easier."

"You're welcome, Constable," Adrian nodded, "So, any luck so far?"

"We're looking through the registry of gray Fords in the Chicago area," Fraser informed the former detective, "Francesca was able to gave us a list of about two thousand within a two hundred mile radius. From my own visuals observations last night, I can narrow the field down somewhat since the car that Mrs. Fleming and her son were taken in was clearly manufactured within the last five years. Currently, I'm down to about five hundred cars after having eliminated certain license plate combinations."

"So you got a look at the plate?" Adrian strode over to the nearest desk and began putting all the papers strewn on it together into one stack.

"A brief enough look," the Mountie said, "The first number was a P or an R, and two of the three numbers were a one and nine."

"That's a good start," Adrian admitted, tapping the stack of papers on the desk until they were all perfectly lined up, "Anyone do any background checks?"

"I called the clinic in New Jersey Sharona's working at now," Stottlemeyer told him, "Maybe she saw something there she shouldn't have. They haven't gotten back to me yet, so I'm wondering if they're covering something up."

"They could be," Adrian picked up a pen and started making notations on the topmost of the papers he'd stacked. "Hey, hey, hey!" Detective Jack Huey came running over, "What the hell do you think you're doing, buddy?"

"You made several grammar mistakes on this report; I was just highlighting them for you," Adrian explained.

Huey snatched it off him. "This was my final report on the arson case I cracked last week!" he shouted, "I can't give it to Welsh like this! I'll get suspended!"

"Well, maybe you could make a backup copy of it?" Adrian suggested.

"Not when you've already fouled up this one!" Huey thundered.

"All right, all right, time to go back to work Detective Monk," Vecchio took Adrian by the hand and led him away. "You know, if you'd made a backup copy of your reports in the first place, these things wouldn't happen," Adrian pointed out to Huey as he left.

"Detective Monk, you can't just go around proofreading everybody's reports!" Vecchio scolded him once they were back around his desk, "Huey's been looking for any excuse to get at me lately, and you're not helping!"

"I just like them to be all perfectly spelled right," Adrian said in self-defense.

Before Vecchio could respond, Disher burst into the squad room. "Everyone, I've just got our first big lead," he announced out loud, "Are you all ready for this?"

There was a pregnant pause while every cop in the room waited for the follow-up that didn't come. Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. "You could have given us three pieces of info by now, Randy," he told the lieutenant, "What is it?"

"I talked to the Motor Vehicle Pool," Disher told him, "They found a car in Lake Michigan this afternoon. A gray Ford. They found some of Sharona's hair in it."

He held out a photograph of the car in question. Stottlemeyer took it and looked it over. "Constable Fraser, does this car look about right to you?" he asked, holding it up for the Mountie to see.

"Yes, I can say with near certainty that this is the car used in the abduction," Fraser nodded, "License plate RCW139."

"There's more," Disher added. Another long wait followed. "Is it your job to hold us all in suspense like this?" Vecchio complained, "Just tell us for the love of God!"

"They did a trace on the car," Disher said, "It belongs to an Amanda Graystone, 447 Upper Wacker."

"Amanda Graystone," Adrian mused. "You ever heard of her, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked him.

"No," Adrian shook his head, "Sharona never mentioned anyone by that name. We should bring her in."

"Actually she's already been brought in," Disher said, "Apparently we're not the only ones on this case."

"What do you mean…?" Vecchio's gazed turned to Welsh's office just as the lieutenant popped out and said, "Vecchio, you and your social group have some visitors." "Oh crap, Ford and Deeter!" Vecchio groaned, noticing the all-too-familiar FBI agents camped out inside.

"Old friends?" Adrian asked.

"You wish," Vecchio shook his head, "Well, let's all get this over with."

Everyone walked into the office. "Well well, I see you boys are just starved for attention again," the Chicago detective said sarcastically to his old foes.

"As I see you are, Detective Vecchio," Agent Ford snorted. His gaze turned upward as a loud squeaking sound filled the office. "Detective Adrian Monk, I don't believe we've formally met," the FBI man said.

"Hi, I'm Adrian, Adrian Monk," Adrian told them, "Sorry, there's a dirt smudge here, if I could just get…"

"Please, Detective Monk, have a seat," Welsh pointed to the nearest open one. Adrian shrugged and sat down. "As we were going to say," Deeter continued for his partner, "We've been assigned to work the Fleming case by Washington. As such, I should point out that we now have final say over you and your band of merry men here dig up. Out of the sheer goodness of our hearts, we'll give you autonomy in what you do, but you will give any and all information you find immediately to us."

"Now wait a minute," Stottlemeyer raised his hand, "We were brought in with the explicit notion by Lieutenant Welsh here that we would have free reign in…"

"What you heard was wrong, Captain," Ford cut him off, "And let me just say right now that you'd better keep you dear good friend Mr. Monk here in check, because if you don't, I'll throw him and you into a jail cell that's just completely dirt-ridden."

"Now as for the suspect," Deeter picked up, "We've been talking with Amanda Graystone for an hour now. She says she was at her nightclub going through her routine…"

"Routine?" Adrian asked.

"You don't want to know, Monk," Stottlemeyer whispered in his ear.

"Going through her routine," Ford said roughly, "She does have witnesses who can back that up, but we figure she's protecting someone else. We'll get to the bottom of this soon, as long as all of you just stay out of our way. Are there any questions?"

"Uh, excuse me, can I fix your tuxedo, you missed a button there," Adrian pointed out. Ford pointed an accusing finger at him. "Touch me and you lose your arm," he said threateningly, "We've heard all about you at the agency, Mr. Monk. Plus your commissioner was gracious enough to show us your files when we called him up. He was quite insightful. About how you're an unstable accident just waiting to happen.

"Well, Commissioner Brooks is still upset that I revealed he's bald when…" Adrian tried to explain.

"We're warning you right now, Mr. Monk," Ford threatened him, "Don't you dare cross paths with us, or you'll regret it."

"Now look here you…!" Stottlemeyer rose to his feet.

"Sit down Captain, or we'll book you for contempt!" Deeter warned.

"Now all of you, please," Fraser raised his arms, "We're all on the same side of the law here. Surely we can put aside our petty differences and focus on getting Mrs. Fleming and her son home safely, which is the primary concern here after all."

"And that's what we're going to do," Ford said, "We've got a witness waiting." As he and Deeter left, he told Vecchio, "And by the way, your files on Mrs. Fleming better be here on your boss's desk when we finish, or you're in contempt."

Vecchio stuck out his tongue at them when their backs were turned. "Lieutenant, how did…?" he asked Welsh.

"Sorry Vecchio, I had no say," Welsh told him, "They came in before they could do anything."

"Great, so now we've got to share whatever we find with those bozos!" the Chicago cop grumbled.

"Of course, we could always feed them an entirely different story of what we find and still do the work," Disher proposed.

"While an interesting thought, Lieutenant Disher, I'm afraid that would be illegal," Fraser pointed out, "And I would feel honor bound to report it."

"Well, we do have the location where they ditched the getaway car," Stottlemeyer pointed out, "Let's go there and see if we can find anything there."

"Works for me, but first there's something I have to do," Adrian rose and started working on the smudge again. "Detective Monk," Welsh told him, "I like my smudges the way they are. If you want to clean them down, work on your own smudges."

"Right, I think I got it though," Adrian held it up for Welsh to see. Welsh nodded slightly, then turned back to his newspaper.

"Diefenbaker," Fraser called out for the wolf, looking around the squad room.

"He's over here, Mr. Fraser," Natalie called from the corner, "He's been staring at me like I'm some bone for the last half hour or so."

"My apologies, Miss Teeger," Fraser bowed humbly, "You see, there were few blondes in the village where he grew up, and such since he's come south, he's been transfixed by them. Diefenbaker, I told you not to bother Miss Teeger," he bent down and looked his pet in the eye, "Now let's go out to the car; I'm going to need you to look for evidence down by the lake."

"He didn't lick anything did he?" Adrian asked Natalie, "I could clean it up for you if you'd want."

"No, he didn't lick me," Natalie said, "You must be thrilled, have to bunk with a wolf as long as we're here."

"Oh no, I'm good with it," Adrian lied, "Probably won't see too much of him—how was Julie?"

"Fine, fine," his assistant said as they followed the others toward the door, "Are you all right? You're never this social."

"Oh, never better. The federal agents threatened me, but that's old news; been threatened all my life. Let's hope they left enough evidence for us to use when they dumped the getaway car."


	4. A Suspect Lost

FOUR

"So you spent a lot of time up in the Yukon, huh?" Disher asked Fraser as they drove toward Lake Michigan.

"About fifty-one percent of my service in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was spent in the Yukon Territory, yes," Fraser told him.

"You know, when I was a boy, I read all the Uncle Scrooge comics about how he struck it rich up there," Disher said, "For a while I wanted to be a prospector like him. And Yukon Cornelius. I kept thinking if I could find the right route, I could go up to the North Pole and meet everyone in the special. Especially Herbie, I really wanted to meet Herbie."

"When, you've been taken in by a common misconception, Leftenant," Fraser pointed out, "Contrary to popular belief, the dentist elf's name is HerMEY and not HerBIE. And in a way one can't really classify the location of the North Pole as Canada since the special was filmed in Japan—Tadahito Mochinaga was the director. On the other hand, of course, since the voice talent was Canadian, one could make a counter-argument that it actually is. Hermey, in particular, was voiced by Paul Soles, who happened to be the nephew of chief recording supervisor Bernard Cowan…"

"Fraser, does it look like Christmas out here?" Vecchio pointed to the trees along the road, which were just starting to change color for autumn.

"No, but…"

"Then save any discussions on Rudolph until Christmas, OK?" the Chicago cop asked, "So here we are, Lieutenant," he said, parking the car, "is this the site they told you they found the car?"

"It is," Adrian was out of the Riviera before the others, although he quickly jumped over to the sidewalk and scraped his shoes off once he became aware he'd stepped into a patch of mud. The detective went into another one of his routines as he examined the tire tracks of the car leading into the lake. "They drove it in at a high rate of speed," he announced.

"How can you tell that, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked as he walked over.

"Take a look at the right tread," Adrian pointed to the right tire track, "The one groove has a deformity. It appears here at a high frequency, indicating the car was moving quite fast when it went into the lake."

"So what are you saying?" Disher asked, looking quite concerned, "Are they…dead?"

"No," Fraser had waded out partially into the lake and was tasting some of the water, "There's no blood in the water, and no poison or internal fluids. As far as..."

"Please, please," Adrian held up his hand, "Let's not go into internal fluids. And could you please not taste the water; I can't begin to guess how many pollutants and toxic substances they dump in their each year."

"And look," Fraser strolled out of the lake, toward another patch of mud, "It looks like there was someone dragged this way. A woman, it looks like. Detective Monk, can you identify these shoes as Mrs. Fleming's?"

Adrian looked closely at them. "Yes," he said, "They're Sharona's all right."

"Now how are we sure of that?" Vecchio inquired, "How do we know it wasn't some other woman who was in the kidnappers' party?"

"Well Ray, if you'll look closely, you can see that all the other shoes in this area are of larger size than this set," Fraser pointed out, "And you'll clearly notice that the woman's shoes are elongated, indicated that she was dragged through here not of her own free will."

Diefenbaker strolled over to his master with something in his mouth. "What have you got there for me, Dief?" the Mountie asked.

"It's one of Benjy's sneakers," Adrian answered before anyone else. He quickly skittered in the opposite direction. "They took him this way," he said, pointing to even more footprints, several of them undersized, leading toward more tire tracks, "Now why would they separate him from his mother?"

"Maybe it's two different groups of kidnappers?" Disher suggested, "Maybe they each were contracted to abduct one of them and split them up when they were done."

"Not very likely," Fraser pointed out, "What would be the point of hiring two different groups of people for one job? You would be greatly stretching your financial well-being trying to pay all of them afterwards."

"Maybe we're talking about a very rich kidnapper here?" Disher posed.

"Of course, it's possible they went in separate vehicles so the cops couldn't follow just one of them," Stottlemeyer said, "I've heard of people who've actually got brains doing that."

"I don't think this time, Captain," his former officer said, circling the abduction site, "I just have a feeling deep down that it's something more than…"

Without warning, he slipped on a wet spot and fell on his back into a very large patch of mud. "Oh my God!" he shrieked, scrambling around in a mad attempt to scrape as much of it off him as he could, "Oh my God! It's everywhere! Wipe, wipe, wipe, somebody a wipe please!"

"All right, all right, please just relax Mr. Monk, I'll have it for you if you'll just take it easy!" a weary Natalie dug several wipes out of her purse. As she was doing so, an old man with a long white beard and a much-patched old gray coat hobbled up on a cane. "Excuse me miss," he asked her, "Would you happen to have the time?"

"Uh, sure," Natalie turned to look at her watch, but at that minute a jogger ran into her, causing her to spill her purse's contents all over the ground. "Hey, watch where you're going!" she shouted at him as he ran out of sight without turning around.

"Here, let me help you with that," the old man bent down and picked up her keys and wallet for her. "Wipe!" a still distraught Adrian called out.

"Just a minute," Natalie told him. Thank you," she told the man as he handed her items back to her.

"WIPE!"

"I said just a minute!"

"Don't mention it," the old man tipped his hat and limped off quickly, as if something was on his mind.

"WWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPE!"

"All right, you want the wipes?" Natalie tossed them into the middle of the mud patch, where they quickly all got dirty, "Go and get them. Can't you see I just had an accident? The guy's more helpful than you are."

Adrian gasped in despair as the salvation to his dirtiness got dirty themselves. "No question now," he lamented, "I've got to go back and take a shower, no, two showers. Call me if you get anything."

"Let me guess, one shower as a backup, right Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked him.

Adrian nodded. Just then, Vecchio's cell phone rang. "Yeah?" he said into it, "What is it, Frannie? Oh really? Well I see you might finally be starting to appreciate the mess I have to put up with…don't try that, Frannie, Ma'll be the first….all right, all right, I appreciate this, I'll pay you back for it. Yes, I promise sooner than later, OK?"

He hung up. "Well, good news, everyone," he announced, "My sister the Civilian Aid just told me they're releasing Amanda Graystone after they grilled her for the last three hours. She heard that she's going back to the club she works at, and out of the goodness of her heart, she seducing Ford and Deeter so they and their bozos stay off the trail, so let's get moving if we want to get the real story off our prime suspect."

"I need to shower first," Adrian raised his arm in protest.

"Forget it pal, we've got our window and I'm going through it," Vecchio told him firmly. "No, no, no, you're not getting in my car like that!" he shouted as the former detective tried to get in the Riviera's back seat, "This is mint condition and it stays that way!"

"Well if I had a few clean WIPES, this wouldn't be a problem," Adrian said, looking back at his current assistant as she zipped her wallet shut. Natalie paid no attention to him.

"Well, perhaps we could stop at a gas station and allow Detective Monk to clean himself off?" Fraser suggested.

"Are you crazy?" Adrian protested, "Do know how filthy gas station bathrooms are?"

Muttering under his breath, Vecchio popped open the Riviera's trunk. "Here," he said, tossing Fraser some cord, "We're strapping him to the roof, and we're going to drive him through the first car wash we see. That should make everybody happy."

"Well Ray, strapping a person to the roof of a motor vehicle is, if I'm not mistaken, in violation of Ordinance Code 45-29…." Fraser started to say.

"This is Chicago, Fraser, no one cares about Ordinance Codes," Vecchio told the Mountie, "Fact is, he's not getting in my car covered in mud, understand, he's not getting in."

* * *

"My upholstery, my wonderful original upholstery," Vecchio lamented as he examined the mud patches all over the Riviera's back seat outside the less than swank Triple XXX club on the Miracle Mile.

"If it's any consolation, Detective, I feel just as bad as…" Adrian tried to tell him, still wound up that he was still partially mud-covered.

"Shut up, all right, just shut up!" Vecchio cut him off, "My cousin's going to overcharge me for the shampooing, I just know it."

"You wouldn't have to get it shampooed, Ray," Fraser pointed out, "With only a light coating of mud as this, the…"

Vecchio wasn't listening. "I said loud and clear that we should have put him on the roof, but did anyone listen to the nice cop? No, we all had…"

"All right, will everyone just calm down?" Stottlemeyer raised his arms, "We're not here to argue, we're here to interrogate Amanda Graystone. Now let's just walk in here and do our thing before the feds figure us out, agreed?"

"Agreed," everyone said, some more surely than others.

"You're paying for the cleaning, pal," Vecchio continued to harass Adrian about his car as they went into the club. It was Adrian's turn not to listen. The fact that scantily clad women now surrounded him was the most important thing on his mind. Repulsed, he looked straight up at the ceiling as they approached the bar. "Excuse me," Fraser addressed the bartender, "We're here to see Amanda Graystone; is she presented and accounted for?"

"She hasn't come in yet," the bartender told him, "I'll go leave a message when she shows up. In the meantime, sit back and enjoy the show."

"Thanks, but we've got other things to do," Adrian said loudly, fixing his gaze on the colored lights above the stage.

"Haven't you ever seen a naked woman before, pal?" Vecchio asked him.

"Of course not, and I never get why any of these people do," without looking, Adrian pointed around to the various men watching the current display up on stage.

"Monk, you can look over this way, there's nobody nude here," Stottlemeyer put his finger in front of his colleague's face and pointed toward the counter. After turning his head very cautiously, Adrian nodded as he saw no naked women. His attention was drawn by something else, however. "Mister," he called to the bartender, "Are those two beers still being used?"

"Hard to say," the bartender told him, "The guys haven't been back in a while."

"Could you even them out for them, then," Adrian suggested, "They look bad lined up like that and uneven."

"You'd pay to make even beers you haven't even ordered?" the incredulous bartender.

"Well, wouldn't everyone?" Adrian posed.

"If you do, it'll be twenty bucks," the bartender told him. Adrian searched his own pockets to find he didn't have twenty dollars. He glanced at Natalie, who rolled her eyes and dug through her purse. "Now I see why you said Sharona always got upset with you and money," she muttered, "You really know how…my social security card's gone."

"What?" Disher looked over her shoulder, "Are you sure you had it in there?"

"Of course I had it in here," Natalie said, rummaging through her wallet for the card, which didn't turn up, "I used it just this…that old guy near the lake, he must have taken it after I was run into."

"That's very interesting," Adrian commented, "Why would he take the social security card? I'd go after the money if I wanted to take something. Is anything else missing?"

"No, everything else's here," Natalie said, "I'll have to call in a new one in the morning."

"My advice, Miss Teeger, would be stop by the nearest social security office and fill out…" Fraser started to say.

"You folks looking for Amanda Graystone," asked a man in a suit who'd come up, "She just walked in the back now."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser told him. The six of them headed backstage, Adrian with his eyes squeezed closed against further nude scenes. "That's her over there," Disher pointed to a red-haired woman in street clothes near the back of a crowd of several showgirls, "I got a good look at her when they brought her in."

"Good going Randy," Stottlemeyer patted his aide on the back. He walked up to the suspect. "Amanda Graystone, I'm Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, we'd like to…"

Amanda took one look at Stottlemeyer's badge and took off running. "Miss Graystone, please come back here," Stottlemeyer said as he gave chase, "We're not going to hurt you."

Amanda jerked open the back door, but found the exit blocked by a barking Diefenbaker. Looking around, she immediately turned right and started running up the stairs leading to the upper floors. "Come on," Stottlemeyer said as he led the others after her, "She's not going anywhere up here."

"Indeed," Fraser commented, "This is much like an illogical situation I see often in American films. The villain, instead of staying on ground level during a chase, where he or she would have a better chance of escape, instead chooses to head into the nearest building and go up as far as possible, which makes no logical sense if you intend on getting away. Sometimes I fail to understand the logic American screenwriters use."

"Sounds good Benny; you can point that out the next time we go see a flick," Vecchio said. He activated his radio. "Attention Unit 9, we've got suspect at Triple XXX club heading for roof; please send all units you can to assist in detention."

They ran out onto the roof. "Hold it right there all of you!" Amanda shouted from the ledge she was now standing on, a good five stories above downtown Chicago, "I'll jump if you come one step closer!"

"It's all right, Miss Graystone, we mean you no harm," Fraser told her, "There's certainly a more rational way through this situation than for you to jump off that ledge."

"I've got one," Adrian raised his hand. He was staring at the ground to try and forget the fact he was now high above the Windy City, "Why don't we go back down to the first floor and do your whole suicide 'I'm going to jump' thing from down there?"

"Are you for real?" Amanda asked the former detective.

"We're still trying to figure that out," Vecchio said, "Anyway, why don't we come down off the ledge and…"

"I said not one step closer!" the stripper warned him as he started forward. Vecchio promptly jumped back. "Amanda," Fraser said, "Think this out. Do you really think killing yourself right now would be the best solution for everyone. A young woman and her son are missing, and you can probably help us find them, but only if you cooperate with us. I promise, we will be a lenient on you at the trial for your help as the law will allow."

"I can't help you!" Amanda said, a worried look in her eye, "He'll have known by now I spoke with you earlier. He'll be on me, I just know it."

"Who's he?" Stottlemeyer asked her.

"I can't tell you that!" she told him, "I made a mistake getting in with him, and if I cross him he'll make me pay for it!"

"He wouldn't happen to be a six-fingered man, would he?" Adrian piped up.

"What?" Amanda looked quite puzzled.

"Just pretend he's not here, OK?" Vecchio told her, "Now Miss Graystone, we can offer protective custody for you if you feel…"

"Protective custody won't work!" she cut him off, "He's got friends with the police! They'd find me out no matter where you'd hide me!"

"You won't be found, I can promise you that, Amanda," Fraser said, "We will make absolutely sure you cannot be found. You have my word."

"You're sure about that?" the stripper asked.

"He won't find you whoever he is," Stottlemeyer told her, "Now please, help us. Who kidnapped Sharona and Benjy Fleming?"

Amanda gave a long deep sigh. "All right," she said in resignation, "It's…"

But then a shot rang out. "Who?" the captain asked. But it was already too late. Fatally shot, Amanda slumped backwards off the roof and landed with a thud on a taxi parked below. Everyone but Adrian rushed over to the edge. "We were that close!" Disher grumbled in frustration.

"That's something else I've frequently seen in American media," Fraser commented, "The killer always seems to wait until the very last second before the informant gives away the crucial information before killing him or her."

"Yeah, I'm sure you and Roger Ebert'll have a lot to talk about," Vecchio snorted, "Anyone see where the shot came from?"

"We're in a sound tunnel," Adrian piped up, "Just like in the St. Clair case. It could have been any of the buildings on this block."

"Well we'll search every one of them," Vecchio said, "Maybe they're still there."

"Good, and in the meantime I'll go home and take that bath I need," Adrian said, shuffling toward the door back downstairs without looking up, "Tell me how it goes."


	5. A Breakthrough and a Serious Setback

FIVE

"…and that was when I realized how he did it," Adrian told Fraser through the closed bathroom door, "It was a magnet. With Dexter's career in electronics, he could easily build one in his workshop. He used his car battery to charge it, then borrowed Danny Bonaduce's car so as not to draw attention to himself. Since he had the key to the apartment, all he had to do was let himself in and wait until Elliot DiSouza was in position. Then he turned it in, and the rest was history. That's why the clock was off and everything in the room was pointing that same way."

"Very ingenious," Fraser nodded, "It might have taken me even longer to figure that one out on that much evidence." He turned to Diefenbaker at his feet and said, "Don't you think that was clever, Dief?"

The wolf looked more puzzled than anything. "So, Adrian, I hate to sound like I'm going back on what I said earlier, but you having been bathing now for exactly five hours and fifteen minutes," the Mountie pointed out, "I'm sure by now you've gotten all the mud off."

"Yes, but I'd like to make sure," Adrian told him, "And then I have to clean out the tub so you, you know, won't be repulsed or anything."

"Understood," Fraser nodded. He fortunately had bathed the previous night and didn't need to take another one. As such, he'd already changed into his long johns—not that he wouldn't have, as it was now close to one in the morning. There was the sound of the water being flushed down the drain, followed by cleaner being scrubbed against the tub. "So, did they find where the shooter was?" Adrian asked as he cleaned on.

"We checked the area; apparently he was atop the building across the street, half a block away," Fraser told him, "We found his footprints—a size eleven—near the right corner, where he'd have an unobstructed shot at Amanda Graystone. We also found five shell casings left behind. We figured he'd been in too much of a hurry to get away to bother retrieving them."

"Any fingerprints?"

"Unfortunately none. The bullets were from a semiautomatic hunting rifle, though, so Ray's going to check for licensed owners at some point tomorrow. Since we still seem to be in the dark, my idea was that we'd stop by the Flemings' residence tomorrow and see if we could find anything there. Perhaps Mrs. Fleming wrote something down that would explain a bit more about this whole ordeal."

"Anything else?" there was the sound of water rushing down the drain again.

"Well yes, I had a report filed as to Miss Teeger's lost social security card. Odds are it'll turn up whenever the thief uses it."

"I know that guy," Adrian commented.

"What guy?"

"The old man that took Natalie's card; I have seen him somewhere before. I don't know where, but I know I have."

"That should help," Fraser nodded, "Also, we did a background check on our victim. The late Miss Graystone it seems lived in New Jersey up until about a month ago. We're not sure yet if she ever had contact with Mrs. Fleming. Now I believe you did say that your former assistant had once been an exotic dancer herself, did you not?"

Adrian came out of the bathroom, clad now in his maroon pajamas. "Sharona gave up…dancing eleven years ago," he said, an uncomfortable expression on his face at the thought of someone so close to him performing such a dubious trade, even for her son's benefit, "I saw Amanda Graystone's driver's license just before they took her body away; she would have been twelve at the time, and I know that the…place Sharona worked at had rules against allowing anyone inside under fifteen, even for…dancers. I highly doubt they knew each other."

"I see," Fraser nodded, "Well then, since that avenue is apparently closed, we'll have to find another in the morning, shall we?"

"Of course," Adrian reached into one of his few remaining full chests and pulled out two items, a nightlight and Trudy's picture. "So you brought your wife along for the trip, I see?" Fraser inquired as the former detective placed the latter on the nightstand and plugged the former into the wall.

"She makes it feel more like home," Adrian said, smiling at the picture. His hand went instinctively for his wedding ring, "It really wasn't a choice, you see. She'd have known if I didn't bring her."

"I see," Fraser said, laying down on his sleeping bag next to the window, "I comprehend fully. At least my father never required that. He understands, having been away all those years. You know, Detective Monk, I've realized you and I really have much in common. We were both essentially orphans in a sense for long stretches, both outside the popular fringes during our formative years, both spent our whole lives in the pursuit of upholding the law, both highly ethical, both favoring styles that would be deemed very conservative by most people…"

"I'm glad someone can see me in themselves," Adrian forced a smile, "Most people simply try and pretend I'm an alien. I'd like to have gotten your life, Constable Fraser. All up there in the Yukon, no crowds, no germs, no snakes or mushrooms in the winter. Of course, there's mud, plenty of it, and animal droppings and heights and wolves…."

There was a low moan of disdain as Diefenbaker looked up from atop his autographed Mark Smithbauer jersey. "No, no offense to you," Adrian said, throwing in what he assumed were the correct sign language for his remarks.

"Um, Adrian, you just told Dief to stick his tail in a beehive," Adrian pointed out.

"Oh," Adrian frowned. An insulted Diefenbaker rose up and trotted toward the bathroom. "Well, I understand your thought process on wanting to be me," Fraser said, "But if I were you, I'd be content with the life you do have, because it's really quite a good one."

"You mean the life I HAD," Adrian said dejectedly.

"No, the one you still HAVE," Fraser told him, "And besides, you did find the right woman. My right woman showed her affection for me by burning down my father's cabin and having me shot."

"True," Adrian admitted. He was unable to stifle a yawn. "Well, I guess it's about time I get to sleep."  
"Agreed," Fraser lifted the top of his lantern and blew it out, "Pleasant dreams, Adrian."

"Pleasant dreams…Benton," Adrian said, flicking on the nightlight. He lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. One thing was for sure…the mattress was WAY too hard…

* * *

"Trevor, we're here," Stottlemeyer said as he knocked on the door of the Flemings' house the next morning.

"Wow," Vecchio said, staring at the impressive Victorian architecture, "How'd they get a place like this?"

"It's their grandmothers, she said they could have it while she was in the hospital," Adrian explained, straightening the detective's askew tie for him, "Here, let me get that for you. You slept in again today, didn't you?"

Vecchio gave him a look of discomfort that quickly told him to stop. Trevor opened the door. "Come in," he told the cops, "I wasn't expecting you this early. "Any news?"

"Trevor, did Sharona happen to know a Miss Amanda Graystone?" the captain inquired as he and the others came inside and hung up their coats.

"Um, if she did she didn't tell me," Trevor said, looking puzzled, "Who's she?"

"She was involved in your family's disappearance somehow," Disher said, "She was killed just before she could tell us who was responsible for the abduction. You mind if we look around?"

"No, not at all," Trevor waved them in, "What exactly are you looking for?"

"We don't know yet, but we'll let you know if we do find it," the lieutenant said as he walked into the den.

"While you're here, Monk, we searched Amanda Graystone's apartment while you were taking the longest bath in history last night," Stottlemeyer said, holding up about six photographs, "Take a look at these. We couldn't find anything important; maybe you can."

Adrian examined each photograph carefully. "The killer got there before you did," he announced when he was finished, "He took incriminating evidence with him. He was someone she knew personally."

"And we know this because…?"

"Look at the table here near the door," Adrian pointed to one of the photographs, "There was something lying there recently—a small book of one kind. There's a very distinct dust outline there and no dust in the center, which says that the book was taken away only a short time ago. Plus, look at the floor. It's been vacuumed heavily so he wouldn't leave footprints."

"Well you would notice that," Natalie commented, leaning over his shoulder, "So how do we know he knew her?"

"Examine the door," Fraser had already caught on, "There's no visible signs of forced entry. The lock hasn't been broken, and the window's intact. Whoever came in had his or her own key—and knew exactly where to find the vacuum."

Vecchio stared back and forth between the Mountie and the former detective. "Are you two related?" he asked incredulously.

"Now why would you say that?" Adrian and Fraser asked him simultaneously.

"Well maybe he came in the back door?" the Chicago cop suggested.

"No, because that door and window are the only ways in or out; this apartment's on the third floor of a motel," Stottlemeyer was catching on as well, "And the vent wasn't broken in either, I remember that. Good work, Monk, we'll look into this."

"Thank you, Captain," Adrian nodded, "I'd better go see if I can find anything here that might help."

He strolled toward the master bedroom, stopping briefly to straighten out two crooked pictures on the wall. "Did you find anything since we last talked that could help us, Trevor?" he asked the husband.

"No, I'm afraid," Trevor said. He was starting to make the bed for the day. "Let, let me," Adrian said, taking one corner, "I'll make it, you know, perfect."

"Sure, why not?" Trevor shrugged. He stepped back and watched as Adrian began making the bed—ever so slowly one blanket at a time. "I think it over," Trevor told him, "I wonder sometimes if this whole ordeal is some kind of punishment for all the past sins I've committed. Did you ever think that was the case with your wife's—loss, Detective Monk?"

"Not really, but now that you mention it, maybe it was," Adrian admitted, "Maybe having her die was my judgment for not granting her request to have kids, I don't know."

"Well lord knows I'd deserve it; look at this," Trevor walked over to the closet and pushed aside a blue tuxedo and an old gray coat. He reached down and picked up a think wad of lottery tickets held together by a rubber band. "At least five thousand dollars I wasted over the last ten years," he told the detective, "I keep it with me to remind myself about how bad a father figure I was. My thinking is that if I see it, I'll know not to do it again."

Adrian nodded. Natalie came into the room, "Mr. Monk, this was under the bathroom sink, you might want to take a look at this," she said, handing him a small journal. Adrian took it with a pair of tweezers and flicked it open. "Interesting," he mused. Sharona's name had been signed on all the pages repeatedly. "Why would she do something like this?" he asked out loud.

"Your guess would be as good as mine, Detective Monk," Trevor shrugged, "Maybe she really was going crazy and…"

Disher ran into the room. "Monk, you'd better take a look at this," he said breathlessly, "I think we've just found the reason for this whole thing."

"I'll be right there, I just need to finish making the bed," Adrian told him, "I'm about a quarter of the way there."

"Well Monk, this kind of can't wait," the lieutenant informed him.

"Let's compromise; you bring it in here and I'll finish making the bed," Adrian offered. Disher looked puzzled, but shrugged and left. Two minutes later, he was back with a piece of paper. "It was inside Benjy's pillow," he announced, "I'm guessing she kept it there for safe keeping."

"Randy, what've you got?" Stottlemeyer asked as he and the other cops ran into the room. Adrian hefted the paper. "It's dated two weeks ago," he announced, "Dear Dr. DiNardo. I hereby inform you of my resignation from the Salandria Clinic. I know what you've been doing with those elderly patients is wrong, and I cannot go on living a lie like this. When human life is at stake, I always choose the moral approach, and in this case that entails leaving your employment. I have many friends in law enforcement that will be very interested in knowing about your schemes, and rest assured they will. Not sincerely, Sharona Fleming."

"DiNardo," Vecchio mused, "Dr. Stephen DiNardo. I remember reading about him; he had his license suspended briefly a couple of years back for performing unnecessary surgery on a four-year-old. He claimed it was an experiment, but his bosses proved in court it was unapproved."

"He said he was trying to prove his methods of open heart surgery was superior to the traditional method," Stottlemeyer had apparently heard of him too, "They gave him his license back after he'd served probation and promised never to do it again. It looks like he may be doing it all over, however."

"The question is, why would Sharona get mixed up with someone like him?" Adrian wondered out loud, "She would have known his reputation. If he was doing unapproved medical testing, she wouldn't go along with it."

"Well maybe he misled her, Monk," Stottlemeyer pointed out, "He could have told her it was an approved experiment, and she discovered the results later on. It was brought out at the trial that he blackmailed his assistants into silence the first time around. He could have done it again. Randy, call the precinct and tell Detective Vecchio's sister to pull Dr. DiNardo's file. Maybe the answer lies in there."

Just then, the doorbell rang. "Who could that be?" Vecchio frowned.

"I'm not expecting anyone," Trevor pointed out.

"I'll see," Fraser strolled to the door. When he opened it, however, there was no one there. There was, however, a small brown package lying on the doorstep. "Now what have we here?" he asked out loud, picking it up.

"Careful, it could be a bomb," Disher warned him.

Fraser sniffed the package. "No, it's definitely not a bomb, Leftenant," he announced, "There's no nitro glycerin or other explosive properties present."

"It might be anthrax," Adrian voiced his own concern as the Mountie opened the package carefully, "They never did catch that guy who gave it to Congress."

"No need to worry, Detective Monk, there's also no anthrax present," Fraser reassured him. Inside the package was an unmarked videocassette. "Now what could this be for?" he pondered.

"There's only one way to find out," Stottlemeyer took it off him and walked over to the TV. "Mind if we turn it on and see, Trevor?" he asked.

"Not at all," Trevor told him, "But don't look at me. I have no idea why they sent this to you, either."

Adrian, meanwhile, walked out onto the porch and glanced around. "Got anything?" Natalie asked him as she joined him.

"He went that way over the grass," Adrian pointed over the right flowerbed, "You can see the broken flowers on the edge there."

"Ah," Natalie nodded seeing what he meant, "You know, I really feel sorry for your ex-assistant's husband. He's going through exactly what I went through with Mitch and all. It's terrible, knowing your loved ones might be in the hands of killers."

Just then, a frightened voice cried out from the TV, "Mommy!" A very familiar voice. One that made Natalie turn deathly pale. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed in horror as she abruptly ran back inside the house, "Oh my God! Julie!"

It was a horrific sight. On the tape, a terrified Julie sat on a worn-out chair dressed only in her pajamas. There was a brutal red mark on her face, indicating she'd been taken violently. And to her right, a Luger was aimed at her head, although the person holding it wasn't visible. "Mommy, they've got me!" the frightened girl sobbed out, "Tell Mr. Monk to back away or they'll kill me, please Mommy!"

"Oh dear," a concerned Fraser said, a solemn look on his face, "This is apparently a lot more intricate than any of us could have imagined."

A hooded and masked figure stepped into frame. "This is your warning, Adrian Monk," it said in a voice that had been digitally altered, "If you do not drop the Sharona Fleming case as soon as possible, the next package you receive will be the remains of your current assistant's daughter—in little pieces. Take this seriously or else."

The screen faded to snow. For the longest time everyone stared blankly at the screen. Adrian spoke up first. "His mask was crooked," he pointed out.

Immediately it became clear he'd made the wrong comment. "His mask?" a now enraged Natalie stormed up to him, "My daughter's in the hands of murderers, and you're more concerned about his mask? You insensitive, uncaring, ignorant…!"

Unable to come up with further things to call him, she started smashing every breakable object in sight, despite Disher and Fraser's attempts to restraint her. "Miss Teeger, I don't think Detective Monk meant that in the manner you seem to think he did," the Mountie tried to console her. But Natalie wasn't listening. She punctuated her rampage by overturning the hall table and breaking off three of the legs. "You like things nice and even?" she challenged his employer, "Clean this mess up!" Then she stormed outside, slumped down and the steps, and began sobbing heavily.

"I should probably do some counseling," Fraser announced out loud, "We at the R.C.M.P. are trained in crisis management for situations such as these."

"Tell, tell her I didn't mean to upset her like that, if she lets you," Adrian told him, his face now wracked with guilt.

"I'll do my best," Fraser said, stepping outside.

"Well, this is definitely a setback," Vecchio said as he ejected the tape, "Now we've got a multiple hostage crisis here and on the West Coast."

"Well it's clear now they have large manpower to pull something like this," Stottlemeyer said, "You have any ideas, Monk?"

"Last night before she was shot, Amanda Graystone said the kidnapper had connections to the police," Adrian was staring at the tape, "The old man took Natalie's social security card for a reason; they needed her address to get Julie as leverage against us."

"Yeah, but what's the point?" Vecchio inquired.

"The point is, I don't think all the cops here are on the same team," Adrian said, "Someone's working for them."


	6. Advice from the Grave and a Ransom Deman...

SIX

"What do you think you're doing?" Vecchio demanded to Adrian as they pulled up alongside the Canadian Consulate, "My glove compartment is not a playground!"

"The manuals, they're all clumped," Adrian told him, "I'm compartmentalizing them for you; one section for the motor, one for…"

"Put them back!" the Chicago cop ordered him, "This is a mint condition Riviera; it's not to be messed with at all!"

"But there's no order to them!" Adrian protested.

"You heard what I said," Vecchio gave him a piercing glare that made Adrian relent and, with a pained look on his face, return the manuals to their original positions. "Good, now remember, the glove compartment is hands-off from now on," Vecchio informed him as they hopped onto the curb and strolled over toward Fraser, who'd agreed earlier in the day to fill in for a fellow Mountie who'd come down sick. "Well Benny, we've got more info since you went back to work," Vecchio told his colleague, who was staring straight ahead with no expression on his face, "It seems that over the last year, there've been three complaints of medical malpractice against Dr. Stephen DiNardo, including one from a woman who's old mother spent weeks in intensive care only to turn up dead unexpectedly. DiNardo claimed it was a heart attack, but all the evidence says he experimented on her. He has a private operating room; it's quite possible Mrs. Fleming walked in on him when he was up to no good and he resolved to get rid of her."

"I have my doubts, though," Adrian said, flicking dirt off Fraser's red serge, "Why would he wait until they came out here to Chicago before kidnapping them? And on top of that, why take Benjy if it's just between him and Sharona? Trevor made it clear they went after Benjy first. Plus, I examined the letter closer," he held up the note they'd found earlier, which he'd triple bagged just to make absolutely sure, "The ink's not completely dry. It wasn't typed at the time the date said. Somebody planted it in there."

Fraser hadn't made any indication he'd been paying attention during the whole explanation. Adrian waved his hand in front of the Mountie's face. There was no response. "Well, if you're busy, maybe I'll come back later," the detective shrugged. As he started to walk away, the clock struck three. Immediately Fraser came out of his trance. "Those are very convincing doubts, Detective Monk," he said, walking toward him, "Perhaps we should investigate further."

"We can't," Adrian shook his head, "Your friends from the FBI didn't believe me when I told them. They're bringing in Dr. DiNardo right now. And remember, if we get too close," his face scrunched up at the unpleasant thought, "They'll hurt Julie. I couldn't live with myself if that happened."

"Well, apart from Detective Monk's theories, it looks pretty much like the good doctor's guilty," Vecchio told his buddy, "If Ford and Deeter don't kill him in interrogation, we should have a confession by tonight."

"Still on the chance Detective Monk's correct, I think we should still examine all possibilities, Ray," Fraser told him, "If you'll excuse me for a minute, I'll check with an associate of mine on how to proceed with human life at stake."

"Constable, I think we'd better just do what they say," Adrian expressed as he followed the Mountie into the building, "Natalie'll kill me if we go forward—if she ever comes around to talking to me again."

"Your feelings are understandable, Adrian, but to give in completely to their demands would be an unnecessary concession to the forces of darkness, if you will," Fraser checked to make sure there was no one watching him before knocking on the door of a nondescript broom closet. "Dad, do you have a minute?" he called in.

"Dad?" Adrian looked puzzled, "You told me your father got shot dead."

"Come on in son, I always have a minute for you nowadays," came the voice from inside. Fraser opened the door into the otherworldly recreation of his father's office. "Wow," Adrian commented, staring around, "It really doesn't look this roomy from the outside."

"You can see all this?" Fraser's eyes raised, "So far only I can…"

"I can sense he needed me too, son," said the ghostly Mountie seated behind the desk. "Pleasure to meet you," he said as he rose and shook Adrian's hand, "Sergeant Robert Fraser, formerly of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"Detective Adrian Monk, formerly with a lot of wipes; you have any?" Adrian looked all over the cabin.

"I'm dead, Detective; I don't have any germs to give you," Fraser Senior informed him.

"That, that is one of the benefits of being dead, true," Adrian admitted, "Won't change it from being my fourth worst fear though. No, fifth. No, fourth. No, fifth. Yes, fourth, it's fourth."

"Dad, we're in the middle of an abduction investigation," Fraser informed his father, "Detective Monk's former assistant and her son were taken against their will. The kidnappers apparently know we're on to them, because they've taken his current assistant's daughter as leverage against us, and as such we're all in a quagmire, so to speak, on how to proceed. Did you have any experience in a matter such as this?"

"Well, son, I'd have to say the closest…." Fraser Senior was cut off as the window to his cabin squeaked open. "May I ask what you're doing, Detective Monk?" the dead Mountie asked him.

"The icicles," Adrian pointed to the frozen forms attached to the roof of the cabin, "They're uneven. I'm going to straighten them out for you."

"You do realize they're imaginary, as is everything else in this office?" Fraser Senior pointed out.

"But they'll be even," Adrian countered, pulling out a nail file and scraping away at one of the fake icicles, "Maybe if other ghosts popped in on you like this, they'd like the icicles to be nice and even, I think."

Fraser Senior gave him a strange looking over. "As I was saying," he turned back to his son, "There was this one time where a claim jumper had taken a mine supervisor prisoner and informed the company that if he wasn't given a high-profile position with the company, he'd kill him. My colleagues and I stood in blinding snow at the foot of the mountain he was holding him on for close to a week trying to come up with possibilities of offense. Sergeant Frobisher finally came up with the final idea; that we'd pretend we were leaving and then strike him from behind. Long story short, it worked."

"Well that's all good, Dad, but I can't quite see what that has to do with the current situation," Fraser said.

"The point is, son, my advice is that perhaps you could try to mislead them into thinking you're on the wrong trail, and then when you figure out what their game is, strike," Fraser Senior informed his son, "Can you think of any good false routes to send them down?"

"Well as a matter of fact, we've gotten a lead which Detective Monk feels is a fraudulent one meant to throw us off," Fraser told him, "I suppose that if indeed it is false, we can throw them off by pretending to go along with it. Your strategy may prove a little hard to enact, though, since Detective Monk's assistant's daughter was on the West Coast, namely San Francisco, when she was taken into captivity, and…"

There was a series of thumps as a complete set of Fraser Senior's (imaginary) books tumbled off the shelf on the cabin's far side. "Sorry," a sheepish Adrian forced a grin, "They weren't alphabetical. I was just putting them in order."

Fraser Senior nodded. "Your associate, he's quite a character," he confided in his son.

"Yes, Dad, but I can't help feeling for the man," Fraser said, "He lost his wife much the same as I lost you, and…"

Just then there was a knocking on the cabin (closet) door. "Hey Fraser, what're you doing in the closet?" came Vecchio's voice from outside.

"Um, uh, well, I'm not at liberty to say, Ray," Fraser said quickly.

"Well come on out; it just came over the horn, Fleming received a ransom note," the Chicago cop told him, "You've got to hear what they're asking for to believe it."

"Be right out then," Fraser called to him. "Thank you for your advice, Dad," he told his late father, "I'll try and keep you up to speed on future events in this case."

"Well, I might pop up to catch the action, "Fraser Senior told him, "This sounds like it might be exciting."

"Okay, well, in that case, Dad, try to pick an opportune time, because often when you arrive to give advice, you do so at a moment that leaves people seriously considering my sanity," his son said, "Take care till then."

"And try not to get frostbite, I guess," Adrian added.

The two of them walked back out into the Consulate. "So what's so exciting about a broom closet that you two had to be in there?" Vecchio had to ask them once he saw them.

"Take a look in there, you're not going to believe that," Adrian pointed in. Vecchio looked inside. "So?" he asked, glancing at all corners of what was now once again simply a broom closet, "It's just a closet. Aren't you afraid of things like closets?"

"Constable Fraser, was, um, giving me the grand tour of the Consulate," Adrian said quickly, realizing Vecchio wasn't going to see what he had.

"Well let's get going, we've got work to do," the Chicago cop waved them outside.

"Your father, nice guy," Adrian told Fraser as they walked outside, "Wish my father was there after death for me."

"Well, he's felt guilty about not being there for me in person during most of my life, so this is his way of redeeming himself," Fraser said.

"Tell me," Adrian had to know, "Is there any insanity in your family, and is it contagious?"

"Well none unless you count my Uncle Tiberius, who was found dead wrapped in cabbage leaves, but we've all assumed that was a freak accident," Fraser explained.

"I see," Adrian nodded slowly. As he hopped into the Riviera's back seat, he couldn't help saying to himself, "Boy, is my family really that normal?"

* * *

"Where have you been?" Stottlemeyer asked his former fellow cop as he came back into the squad room about ten minutes later, "I've been trying to get you all afternoon."

"I was getting advice from the dead," Adrian admitted. Stottlemeyer and Disher exchanged bizarre looks. "Is Natalie any better?" the detective asked, finally able to use a wipe to cleanse his hands.

"She's back at the apartment, being counseled by the wolf," Stottlemeyer explained, a sardonic tone to his voice, "As if a wolf could really make someone feel better."

"Well actually, Captain, lupine behavior is often, contrary to popular belief, sympathetic; indeed, many packs have been known to take in outsiders and accept them as one of their own," Fraser told him, "So, where's the note?"

"Here," Disher leaned over the nearest desk and picked it up, "It came in an hour ago. Here's the kicker: they want five hundred million for Sharona but only a thousand for Benjy."

"That's very strange," Adrian picked up the note with his tweezers and held it at arm's length. "You think you can read it from there?" Vecchio half-joked.

"Someone may have coughed on it; I'm not taking any chances," Adrian said, "Why so much for her and so little for him? It's almost as if they want to let him go."

"Maybe they took him by accident?" Stottlemeyer proposed.

"I don't think so," Adrian shook his head, "They wanted him. I don't know why, but they did. What's the deadline for the payment, Randy?"

"They went the money in one suitcase in unmarked bills Friday night at O'Hare's international section, on the tarmac," Disher went on, "No police. And a flight to Montevideo, no tricks. If anything goes wrong, we'll get their heads shipped to us through the mail."

"Ouch, they mean business," Vecchio, despite all his years on the force, couldn't help flinching.

"They always meant business," Adrian said, "They proved that when they took Julie."

"Detective Monk has serious doubts that Dr. DiNardo is the kidnapper," Fraser told them, "Am I correct, Detective?"

"Yes," Adrian said, "Why would he ask for a ransom if he'd found Sharona stumbling onto his illicit dealings? It doesn't make any sense." He then explained to them all the rest of his theory. "We've got to tell the FBI about this," he said as a finisher.

"Forget it Monk, they're lost in their own grandeur," Stottlemeyer shook his head, "I watched the interrogation of Dr. DiNardo; even though he demolished all their theories, they refused to budge. I think they might be Michael Eisner's illegitimate kids."

"At one point," Disher added, "They almost made him play Russian Roulette. Only Lieutenant Welsh's untimely entrance saved him."

"Besides, if Detective Monk's theory that there's a spy on the force somewhere feeding the kidnappers information is true, as I suspect, we really can trust no one with information, not until we find out who it is," Fraser added.

"Now how do we figure that out, I wonder?" Vecchio had to know.

"I've developed a list of questions," Fraser pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and proceeded to read the first thing he'd written on the list: "Pardon me sir or madam, whatever the case may be, would you per chance be collaborating with the Fleming kidnappers?"

"Nice way of determining it," Stottlemeyer muttered.

"So if it's not DiNardo, who is it?" Vecchio pressed Adrian,

"I'm working on it, still," Adrian said, flicking Vecchio's desk lamp for some bizarre region, "First, though, I've got to find new mattresses; the old one's too hard.

"Monk, we're in the middle of an investigation, we don't have time to stop for mattresses," Stottlemeyer groaned.

"I'll take him," Fraser said, "You can keep looking for information.

"OK, Fraser, but I've got no idea where to start," Vecchio said, "We haven't got any other leads or suspects."

"All puzzles will present their answers in due time, Ray," Fraser said as he and Adrian left. Vecchio sighed deeply. "I hate it when he talks like some Eskimo old guy," he told Stottlemeyer and Disher, "Oh well, let's see what we can get out of this while they're out shopping."


	7. A New Lead

SEVEN

"Thank you kindly for assisting with these mattresses, Melvin," Fraser told the landlord as they and Adrian lugged the mattresses up the stairs toward their apartment.

"Explain to me why you need five of them?" the landlord complained, almost dropping his end.

"I need backups," Adrian told him, "Just in case."

"In case of what I don't wanted to know," the landlord grumbled. They pushed it into the apartment and set it against the wall. "I need a drink," the man said, "I'll be back up in about five minutes."

He walked out. Immediately both law enforcement men because aware of the sobbing still going on next door. "I'd want to tell her I'm sorry," Adrian said, looking abysmal, "Can you tell her for me?"

"You can't tell her in person?" Fraser asked.

"I don't think she'd accept it right from me," Adrian grimaced, "She'd say I didn't get it. I know how it is; I went through the same experience with Sharona once."

"Well, that's not necessarily how she'd take it," Fraser pointed out. Seeing this didn't really make Adrian any more optimistic, he added, "Well, if you'd like to wait in the hall and listen in, I suppose that might be an option."

Adrian nodded to this suggestion. Fraser strode across the hall and knocked on Natalie's door. "May I enter?" he asked.

"Sure, come on," came Natalie's response. From his vantage post around the door, Adrian watched as the Mountie walked in and sat down on the floor next to Natalie, who was glancing somberly at a photo of Julie. "I should have stayed in San Francisco with her," she said ruefully, "I shouldn't have let him talk me into coming out here. It would never have happened."

Diefenbaker, who'd been lying on the floor next to her, rose up and licked her face sympathetically. "Well, it's rather unfair to suggest that present circumstances would be any different had you been there rather than here," Fraser said, "In all likelihood, you would have been taken into captivity as well, Miss Teeger. It would also be unfair, I must tell you, to deflect blame onto your boss, upset though you may be with his earlier remark, which I'll admit was out of line for the situation. I sympathize with your feelings though; I've gone through many similar abduction cases both here in Chicago and in Canada, and I know how the parent or parents would feel…"

"He's standing outside listening, isn't he?" Natalie asked abruptly.

"Yes, he is," Fraser admitted. "Get away!" Natalie yelled at her boss, "You hurt me and insulted my daughter, you unsympathetic…!"

"I'm just as concerned with Julie's safety as you are," Adrian said, looking uncomfortable at being in an argumentative situation, "I've been thinking about her all day. And I promise we'll bring her back, alive and in as few pieces as possible."

Natalie gave him a glare that told him he'd goofed up again. "Or in one piece, that's even better," he said quickly.

"Miss Teeger, there's an old Inuit saying," Fraser said, putting a hand on her shoulder, "'He who eschews bitterness toward others serves only to poison all his own wells.'" He frowned. "Or at least it goes something like that. But the point is, by choosing to be bitter toward your employer Mr. Monk despite his sincerity toward the situation, you are only creating an emotional chasm between the two of you. And we will be unable to help your daughter if that chasm exists."

Adrian finally got the nerve to walk into the room. "I'm sorry Natalie, I really am," he said quickly, "I didn't mean to cause you any pain."

Natalie let out a deep sigh of release and realization. "It's okay," she told him, her head in her hands, "It's more my fault. I'm just so worried, I don't know how else to act."

"No, really, it's my fault," Adrian said.

"No, it's mine."

"No, it's mine."

"I see you two are able to connect again," Fraser cut in to the self-guilt tripping, "All one has to do in a situation such as this is realize the other side's viewpoint. I've seen it many times; anger is not an independent emotion. Once the parallel emotion it's connected to in each circumstance is dealt with, it can die on the vine. "Why don't you come in, Adrian?"

The detective walked in and squatted, apparently unwilling to take the chance that Diefenbaker had been active with the floor. "You want me to fix you anything to eat?" he asked his assistant, "Make the bed, get you a blanket, run out for a paper…?"

"Why are you acting like a butler?" Natalie asked him, confused by his sudden shift in behavior.

"I'm trying to empathize," Adrian said, pulling a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around her—after looking over it thoroughly to make sure Diefenbaker hadn't done anything with it, "That's what people do to make up with people. That's what I did with Sharona when she…"

Natalie sighed deeply. "Mr. Monk, we've been over this before, I am not Sharona."

"I know, I know," Adrian looked frustrated at this continuous pattern of his, "It's just…so hard to avoid the parallels." He walked over to the refrigerator and took out the milk. "So, do you do anything today besides mourn?" he asked in an overly bubbly tone.

"Not much; I'm not that thirsty," Natalie shook her head when he tried to hand her a glass of it, "The wolf kissed me more times than I could count."

Diefenbaker nodded in pride. "Here's the wipes in case you want to wash yourself off," Adrian handed them to her, "We met with Constable Fraser's father; he gave us contradictory advice."

"His father?" Natalie shot Fraser a strange look, "He said his father was dead."

"He is," Adrian said, "He looks good, though; apart from being dead and all, that is. He really hasn't decayed at all, and…"

Suddenly gunfire ripped through the apartment. "Everybody down!" Fraser yelled, smothering everyone. After about thirty seconds, the spray of bullets stopped. Fraser ran to the window to see a masked gunman starting to run away from the ledge of the apartment across the street. "Dief, go," he ordered his wolf, which took off out the door. The Mountie started climbing out the window. "Are you serious?" Adrian protested, "You know how high up we are?"

"Come on, we'll lose him," Fraser said as he ran up the fire escape out of sight. Adrian started to follow…and promptly froze up at the sight of the alley a long way below. Whimpering, he pulled out some wipes and grabbed on to the railing with them. "Well, aren't you going after him?" a frustrated Natalie asked him.

"Oh, I think Constable Fraser's got him already, he doesn't need us," Adrian said in a weak voice, "Carry me back in, I can't move; too high up."

Natalie rolled her eyes. There was a screech as Vecchio's Riviera pulled up underneath the building. "Monk, what's going on?" Stottlemeyer asked, sticking his head out the window.

He was partially answered as Diefenbaker tore out of the building, barking as loud as he could. He and his associates followed the wolf down the street with their eyes. "Up there," Disher pointed up the block, where Fraser made a spectacular leap between buildings on the trail of the suspect. "After him," Stottlemeyer told Vecchio, who threw it in reverse and tore back up the block.

Upstairs, Adrian finally managed to pull himself through the window. He took several deep breaths to get his composure back. "OK I'm ready," he said, rushing out the door and down the stairs.

"Better late than never, I suppose, right?" Natalie asked sarcastically, hot on his heels.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," Adrian said, bursting out onto the street, "It's been a while since I've been in hot pursuit; I guess I'm a little rusty.

"Heads up Monk; he's coming your way," came Stottlemeyer's shout from up the street. Moments later, the suspect swerved around the corner, smashing through a pile of garbage laid out on the street for the trucks. Adrian stepped into his path and held his arms up, blocking his path…only to turn aside at the last minute and let the fugitive run by him. "What the hell's the matter with you; you had him dead to rights!" yelled Vecchio as he pulled up alongside in his car.

"He had garbage on him; I can't touch…" Adrian tried to say.

"Ah, never mind, just get in!" Vecchio jerked his finger toward the back seat. Adrian climbed in. Vecchio gunned after the suspect, who now had a substantial lead on them. "All units, we're in pursuit again!" the Chicago cop yelled over the radio, "Everybody head to East Racine to…" wait, never mind, situation under control, keep up the good work."

Fraser had taken a swan dive off the roof of the liquor store on the corner and knocked the suspect down into even more garbage. The gunman tried to squirm away, but found a growling Diefenbaker cutting off his exit on the right. "Police!" Vecchio yelled, aiming his gun at the suspect as he ran up, gun in hand, "Off with the mask, buddy!"

"Go to hell, cop!" the suspect told him off.

"We got him?" Disher asked as he and Stottlemeyer ran up.

"Yes, Leftenant, he's now in our custody," Fraser said. The Mountie reached down and pulled off the mask himself. "Well, well, Timmy 'the Stallion' Garbani.'" Vecchio told the glowering shooter, "What a surprise. You know, I was kind of hoping you'd be connected with this."

"You know him?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Yeah," Vecchio said, a huge smile on his face, "Garbani here happens to be one of the top aides to my old pal Frank Zuko."

"This suspect allegedly tried to kill Detective Monk and myself," Fraser explained to the San Francisco police.

"Allegedly? I'd say that was a pretty solid attempt at murder, Constable," Natalie pointed out. She was still breathing heavily from running a block and a half after everyone.

"Well, the dictum is innocent until proven guilty, Miss Teeger," Fraser pointed out.

"What's Zuko's connection to the Fleming kidnappings?" Vecchio demanded, shaking Garbani, "Talk to me, I know you do nothing without his say so!"

"I ain't saying another word without my attorney, Vecchio!" Garbani snorted as Disher cuffed him.

"You'd better, or else…!" Vecchio warned him.

"Ray, the Fifth and Sixth Amendments clearly state that he has the right to remain silent and to council," Fraser pointed out, "It would be in our best interests to abide by those principles."

"He's right," Adrian added. The detective was grimacing heavily from the garbage all over the shooter.

"All right, we're taking a ride down to the station, pal," Vecchio hauled Garbani to his feet and dragged him into the back of the Riviera. "Everyone in," the Chicago cop. He noticed Adrian hanging back. "Now what's the problem, pal?" he had to ask.

"I can't get in with him," Adrian said in a pained tone, "The garbage, it's…"

"All right, we'll take HIM through the car wash!" Vecchio groaned, "Front seat, and touch nothing!"

He put the siren on the roof—and Adrian promptly picked it up with the wipes and moved it. "I said don't touch anything!" Vecchio protested.

"It's OK, Detective, it has to be centered," Stottlemeyer said, touching Vecchio on the shoulder, "Trust me, it's important."

What followed was a tedious five minute wait as Adrian tried to get the siren perfectly centered on the Riviera's roof. Finally, he got it in a position he wanted and hopped into the front passenger seat. "This Frank Zuko guy, he's an old friend?" the former detective asked as they pulled back out into traffic.

"He runs the rackets on the South Side," Fraser explained, "He and Ray have had a long and icy relationship back to when they were young, a relationship that was recently heightened by the accidental death of Zuko's sister at his hands. Ray once had…"

"Please, Fraser, let's leave Irene out of it for now," Vecchio held up his hand, a pained look on his face at the memory of losing the woman he'd once loved. "We've been trying to nail Zuko for years," he explained to the others, "He's always managed to stay one step ahead of us, though. If you can connect him to this case, you'd be doing a lot of people down here a big…."

"Red light," Adrian cried out as they went right through one. Vecchio shot him a harsh look. "We have a siren, we can go through it!" he snapped.

"Well that begs the question; if he is responsible for the kidnapping, why did he do it?" Disher inquired.

"Well it's possible that Sharona or Benjy witnessed something they shouldn't have, and this guy Zuko ordered them put under wraps," Adrian said, "I don't know why he'd ask for a ransom, though…could I have some air over here, it's really warm."

Vecchio hit the switch for the air conditioner, muttering under his breath.

"If he's a big guy, he'd have connections to mob people all over the country," Stottlemeyer said, "He could easily have called his buddies in California and have them pick up Julie."

"Well, once we get Mr. Garbani's story out, we'll know more," Fraser said, looked back at the disgruntled suspect in the back seat.

"If he talks," Vecchio grumbled, "And first thing tomorrow, we're paying Zuko a little visit."


	8. Another Impossible Suspect

EIGHT

Adrian took a sip from his cup of tea. He glanced around the brightly lit room and smiled at Trudy. "This was a very nice idea," he told her warmly.

"I knew you'd like it," she said warmly, "It's right up your alley."

"Adrian," came Sharona's voice from the kitchen. She and Benjy walked out carrying a gigantic bottle of Sierra Springs water. "I thought you'd like some of this," she said, pouring him a neat cup.

"Yes, I would," her former employer nodded, "I don't know why I'm even drinking this tea."

"Probably because I made it," Trudy touched his hand.

"Yes, that probably explains it," Adrian smiled.

"Mr. Monk, here's my first draft," Benjy handed him a thick script, "They say they might want to publish it. I think they really like your cases. You might get lucky and land a movie or TV show."

"TV show or movie? I don't think I'm that entertaining," Adrian said, but he was still smiling. He nodded as he leafed through the manuscript. "This is perfect, everything is just absolutely perfect," he said, putting his arms around all three of them, "This is heaven on earth. I never want it to end."

They all smiled at him. That was when Adrian felt the cold breeze against the back of his neck. He turned around. A gigantic shadowy hand was snaking in through the door. A hand with six fingers. "Oh no!" he gasped, jumping to his feet, "It's coming! We've got to get out of here!"

He started running, but looked back when he realized no one else was joining him. They in fact seemed unaware of the danger. They were in. "Come on, run!" Adrian screamed, gesturing for them to follow him, "Please, run; he'll get you!"

But it was too late. The hand grabbed all three of them and dragged them screaming out the door. "No!" Adrian tried running after them, but the faster he ran, the farther away they got, "Come back! Don't leave me, don't…Trudy!"

And then he woke up with a start. Breathing heavily, he glanced out the window. It was still dark. The lantern blazed on. "Are you all right, Adrian?" a concerned Fraser asked him. The Mountie was upright and had clearly been awake for some time. "You've been talking in your sleep for exactly thirty-eight minutes."

"Oh, just a nightmare, that's all," Adrian said. He lovingly stroked Trudy's picture. "I'm sorry," he told her.

"Do you have nightmares often about your wife dying a lot?" Fraser inquired.

"How'd you know?" Adrian was impressed.

"Since you ended you nightmare screaming her name, it was a safe assumption," Fraser leaned up against the bed. "You can't keep lingering on how you could or couldn't have saved her, Adrian," he told him, "What has passed is past, and we cannot change the decisions of the Fates. Tis best to be as Shakespeare: 'When the wind is southerly, I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw.'"

"Well sometimes the hawk looks a lot like the handsaw," Adrian admitted, "Especially when the wind's from another direction."

"Understandable," Fraser mused, "Letting go in regards to a lot of things is hard. But I sense there's more haunting you than that."

"Yes, actually," Adrian nodded, "I really want to solve this one for Sharona. Just to say thanks, you know, for everything she's done for me. I never did get a chance to ask what I mean to her."

"And you want to know if she really has feelings for you other than that of nurse to patient and boss to employee?"

"I don't know, really," Adrian looked quite torn, "I mean, nobody ever really tells me how they feel. So I don't know if they really appreciate my company or not."

"And it's that important to your psychic well being?"

"To me, yes."

"Well, that's also understandable, but my advice would be not to dwell too much on that thought," Fraser told him, "One thing my grandmother taught me is that if we spend our lives trying to concentrate on what others think of us, we end up being an empty shell of ourselves. I'm sure Mrs. Fleming appreciates all you've done for her."

"But what if something goes wrong and she…joins Trudy?" Adrian wasn't quite at peace yet, "And I never get to say anything?"

"She'll know, trust me," Fraser patted him on the shoulder, "Now don't worry about it. You've made great strides in assisting us to solve this case, and I know in my heart you're going to make a breakthrough in the near future."

"You do?" Adrian was impressed for once.

"Yes, I do," Fraser smiled, "You should try and think more highly of yourself. You're a good man, and should give yourself the symbolic pat on the shoulder more often."

He yawned. "Well, I suppose that should put you at ease for the moment," he said, lying back down, "Feel free to arouse me, though, if more concerns become you."

"I will," Adrian nodded as Fraser blew out the lantern. He inhaled deeply. He had a LOAD of other concerns that he didn't feel like saddling Fraser with. For the moment, however, his primary worries had been put to rest, and he was grateful for that.

"That's a stop sign, you went through a stop sign," Adrian told Vecchio as they drove toward Frank Zuko's house the next morning.

"Hey pal, if you think you can drive any better, why don't you come up here and do it yourself?" Vecchio snapped.

"That's a bad idea," Natalie interceded, "We'd never go anywhere if he drove."

"Yeah, good point," Vecchio realized.

"Now you're going three miles over the speed…" Adrian pointed to the odometer.

"Monk, it's OK," Stottlemeyer looked him right in the eye, "Let the man drive—or else he might do something that would cost him his shield."

"And you don't want me to do that," Vecchio flexed his wrists. Adrian nodded and fell silent. They pulled into Zuko's driveway.

"Wow," Disher exclaimed as they hopped out of the car, "I'm seriously impressed. They have great houses here in Chicago."

"You don't want this one," Vecchio said, leading them up to the door, "It was built on illegal money." The Chicago cop knocked hard on the door. A haggard-looking Frank Zuko opened it. "Ray," the mob boss exclaimed at the sight of his longtime acquaintance, "Long time no see. I thought you'd moved out west."

"Yeah, well I still have business here," Vecchio said sharply, "You know my pal the Mountie, this is Captain Stottlemeyer, Lieutenant Disher, Detective Monk, Miss Teeger. They're all from San Francisco on a case we think you might have something to do with."

"So you're the famous Adrian Monk?" Zuko shook both of Adrian's hands, "Your reputation proceeds you. I've heard much about your exploits out in San Francisco. Won't you come in?"

"We'd like to, thanks," Adrian gestured to Natalie, who handed him a wipe. They walked into the foyer. "Mr. Zuko, have you ever seen this woman or her son?" Fraser asked Zuko, handing him a photograph of Sharona and Benjy—specifically the one taken while they had been on vacation with Adrian at the hotel where Lupe Olivencia had been murdered.

"No, I can't say I have," Zuko said, handing the photo back. He sat down at his office desk and pulled a packet of gum out of the drawer. "Gum, anyone?" he asked, offering it around.

"We're not taking anything from you, Zuko," Vecchio said roughly, "Last night your pal Timmy Garbani tried to kill Constable Fraser and Detective Monk. He didn't say anything under interrogation, but I'm willing to bet any amount of dough you told him to. So why don't you save yourself a lot of trouble and tell me what your role in the kidnapping is?"

"Well I would if I was part of it, but you're barking up the wrong tree, Ray," Zuko said, reclining confidently in his chair, "You know I don't do kidnapping, and if you…"

He was cut off by a clinking sound. Adrian was touching the center of the chandelier over the room. "Is there a problem, Detective Monk?" the mob boss asked.

"Oh nothing, I just have to do it with everyone's chandeliers," Adrian said. He walked over to the wall and straightened a crooked picture of the Zuko family. "Mr. Zuko, where were you three days ago?" he inquired.

"Ah, that's the thing," Zuko said, "I was down in Florida. Me and the whole family—and extended family too," he shot a knowing glance at Vecchio, who looked like he didn't believe a word his old enemy was saying, "We spent the last two weeks at the Grand Floridian at Disney World. You need proof?"

"That would be greatly appreciated," Stottlemeyer said.

"Well, here you are," Zuko opened another desk drawer and handed the captain several photographs. "There, you see, that's us at the Magic Kingdom," he said as Stottlemeyer examined them, "I also have receipts if you need to look at them too."

Stottlemeyer nodded. Zuko handed him several of the receipts in question. "These do look pretty legitimate, what do you think, Monk?" he asked, only to find his go-to man examining the curtains. Fraser looked at the receipts instead. "Yes, these are authentic, Captain," the Mountie nodded, "You can see the imprint of the Disney World logo here in the center; that's practically impossible to forge."

"You'll also notice how tan I am," Zuko pointed to his face, which indeed showed signs of having been in a warm sun for a long period of time, "You can't get a tan like this in Chicago at this time of year."

"That's quite true," Fraser nodded, "On the surface at least your story appears to check out, Mr. Zuko."

"What are you saying Constable, that you can't trust the obvious truth?" Zuko chided him, "You can call the airlines for all I care; it was Delta flight 893 down and 3992 coming back. They'll vouch for me that I was there."

"Maybe you called your friends and orchestrated the abduction from Florida?" Disher suggested, "That's how Al Capone did the St. Valentine's Day Massacre."

"Maybe I could if my cell phone was working," Zuko pulled it out of his pocket and showed it to Disher, "As you can see, it's out of service. Some internal function failed before I left for Orlando. The phone at the hotel room was broken, too. There was no way I could have called back here to Chicago."

"And you really expect us to believe you?" Vecchio snapped, "I know you, Zuko; that story's just a little too convenient for me. If you think…"

"Ray," Zuko said abruptly, "I know you want to bring this woman and her son home safely, and really, I'd like to help any way I can. Anyone who tries to ransom someone for half a billion dollars when their family has no money to begin with deserves the chair. You've seen the evidence, gentlemen…and Miss Teeger; I am not involved. There is no way I could have been involved. Now if you don't have any further questions…"

"I, I have one," Adrian spoke up, "When was the last time you cleaned the curtains here?"

He pointed at the ones hung in the window behind the desk. "I don't know, probably about seven months, I guess," Zuko told him.

"You wouldn't mind if we took them with us and cleaned them for you, would you?" Adrian asked, "I mean, a lot of people have clearly been smoking in here, and…"

"Monk!" Stottlemeyer raised both eyebrows at him. "Or maybe we'll come back later," Adrian said quickly, backing away from the window.

"As I was saying, if you don't have any further questions concerning your thoughts of my involvement in this little kidnapping of yours, I'll show you to the door," Zuko gestured toward it.

"Well, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Zuko," Stottlemeyer shook hands with him, "We'll call again if we need to come back. Just don't leave town."

"Oh I won't," Zuko smiled at him as he and the others walked toward the door. Vecchio, however, hung behind. "Zuko," he told his foe, "I'm telling you right now, if I find you're involved with this, I'm going to nail you to the wall."

"Oh come on Ray, don't tell me you're still that obsessed with Irene," Zuko half-scolded him, "You know it was an accident as much as I do."

"It was an accident, yeah, but you should count yourself lucky I still didn't hammer you for it!" Vecchio said threateningly, "Not one but two kids' lives are in danger in this 'little kidnapping of ours,' and if you make another attempt on our lives, you're going down harder than you can possibly imagine."

"Really Ray? Well then, why don't you prove I did it?" Zuko dared him. Vecchio was silent, knowing he couldn't at the moment. He did, however, whisper, "I'll be keeping my eye on you!" before he walked out after the others. "We've got to nail him, I just know he did it," he confided in them, "Didn't he, Detective Monk?"

"Yeah, what do you think, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked as they stepped outside.

"He's not THE the guy, but he is the guy," Adrian told him.

"Huh?" the Chicago cop frowned, "Don't be teaching him how to speak Canadian, Benny; I can barely understand you when you speak it," he told the Mountie.

"Ray, I believe Detective Monk said that although Mr. Zuko did not plan the abduction, he is the one who executed it," Fraser told him.

"Yes, great!" Vecchio pumped his fists in the air in delight at the thought of his longtime nemesis finally going to jail, "Now how do we know it's him, so that we call tell his grand jury when we book him?"

"I got a good look inside his desk drawer when he was getting out the photos for us; one of the things he has in there are the keys to Amanda Graystone's car," Adrian said, "Plus he knew the exact ransom figure; that hasn't been made public yet, so how could he know unless he was in on it? And he's using an elephant to keep Sharona prisoner both actually and psychologically."

"An elephant? How can you tell that?" Disher asked.

"He's got a permit for one on his windowsill; from the looks of it, it was issued only about ten days ago," the former detective said, "Since her fear of elephants—which I must admit, I still find rather silly—is something she doesn't tell a lot of people about, we can assume whoever ordered him to kidnap her and Benjy is someone she knew personally. Someone she would trust telling she doesn't like elephants."

"It's not Gail, is it?" Disher asked, concerned.

"No Randy, it's not Gail, I can say that now," Adrian reassured him, "She has zero motive for wanting her sister to disappear. I called her up last month, in fact—just to keep the old times going in a way—and she told me how much she misses her too."

"But that doesn't explain the suntan or how the receipts match up," Natalie pointed out as they climbed into the Riviera, "How could he have done it when he was in a hotel room in Orlando during the abduction—without a phone?"

"I know, it seems impossible," Adrian conceded, "But he's the guy."

Inside, Zuko was dialing his phone. "It's me," he told the person on the other end as he watched the Riviera drive away, "I just got visited by your friend Adrian Monk. No, he hasn't figured it out yet, but I can tell just by looking at him he's as good as you'd said he'd be. I know, I said I'd take care of it, and I will. You just make sure you hold up your end of our bargain. Yeah, that's a threat. I'm just saying, if you try to cut me out of my share, I'll happily tell the cops everything and bring you down. Right, I'll get on it. Adrian Monk won't be a threat much longer."


	9. Our Hero's Funeral?

NINE

"Look these over very carefully, Trevor," Fraser said, handing him a book full of mug shots of various members of Frank Zuko's gang, "Tell us if you think any of these men could have been the kidnappers."

"Hmm," Trevor examined the pictures one by one, "Several of them could have been. These two look about the right height. But like I said, it happened really fast."

He abruptly sneezed and snorted loudly. Nearby, Adrian took three giant steps backward. "Sorry," Trevor apologized to him, "I may be coming down with a cold; had a sore throat since yesterday morning."

"I see," Adrian said nervously. The detective dug out rubber gloves and quickly put them on. "Don't want to touch anything," he told all the incredulous onlookers, "Most colds come through touching diseased objects."

"I checked with the airport," Disher walked over, "They confirmed Frank Zuko definitely got on the flights he described. The Grand Floridian also confirmed he stayed there. They said he did spend a lot of time inside his motel room. He apparently came down stomachaches; room service brought him a load of medicine during his time there. What can I say, it looks like he checks out."

"Yeah, well the one thing I know with Frank Zuko, he's never said an honest thing in his whole life," Vecchio snorted, "Somehow we've got to prove his connection enough so that any court in America can convict. His whole family should have been busted years ago. The feds were on to his father Carl for tax evasion and extortion twenty years ago, when all of a sudden the charges were all dropped. We've suspected he bribed out the top investigators, but we never could prove it. So we've got to make this count for all the past failures."

"A dummy," Disher suddenly blurted out, "He stuck a robotic dummy in the hotel room, climbed out the window, went to the airport, flew to another city, hitchhiked into Chicago, and carried out the kidnapping."

"A dummy?" Stottlemeyer raised his eyebrows, "Do you honestly think he could fool Disney employees with a fake stomachache for two weeks with a dummy without anyone noticing?"

"Well maybe he bribed the hotel off?" Disher suggested.

"Then how come he's in half a dozen pictures at the rest of the resort during several days of the trip?" Stottlemeyer showed him the photos in question, "Forget it Randy, we can definitely rule out a dummy."

"Right," Disher nodded. Then he mused, "Maybe he cloned himself."

Everyone groaned. "What?" Disher asked, "He's got the funds; he could do it."

"The big question here is, who's he taking his orders from?" Adrian posed, deliberately looking the other way so Trevor, who'd just sneezed again, couldn't breathe any germs toward him, "And what's Amanda Graystone's ultimate connection with this whole affair?"

"I called the motor pool," Stottlemeyer told him, "She never reported her car stolen, so I guess she unknowingly loaned it to the mob or whoever the big man is."

"That makes sense," Adrian nodded.

"Well, in one positive way, at least we now know that Mrs. Fleming and her son are likely being held in a large enclosed area, anywhere big enough to contain an elephant without exposing it to prying eyes," Fraser said, "Assuming that they're within Chicago limits, that narrows down the field of possible locations to about thirty-one facilities."

"That's always a plus when…OH MY GOD!" Adrian screamed abruptly. He pointed in horror at the desk he'd put his salad bowl on. The salad bowl that Diefenbaker was now almost finished eating. "How…How could you?" Adrian cried at the wolf. Diefenbaker turned toward him and burped.

"Diefenbaker," Fraser strode over and looked his pet sternly in the eyes, "We had an agreement that you would respect Detective Monk's personal habits during the time he's here with us, and this constitutes a gross repudiation of your part of the agreement. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Diefenbaker yawned, apparently disinterested, and skittered off toward the bathrooms. "My deepest apologies," Fraser told Adrian, "There are times when I have difficulty controlling him, and it looks as if this is one of these times."

"Thank you, thanks," Adrian said, picking up the remains of his snack in his gloved hands and dumped it in the nearest trash can, "That's why I don't have pets, you know."

Lieutenant Welsh stuck his head out of his office door. "Fleming, the feds want a word with you," he called to Trevor.

"Right," Trevor blew his nose and walked toward the office. Everyone crowded around the door. "Mr. Fleming, we're going to try and outfox the kidnappers," Agent Ford told him as he sat down, "Since they're asking so little for your son, we'll try and get him out of their clutches. We're sending word to all of the television and radio stations in the Tri-State region that we'll pay his ransom ahead of time tonight at eight."

"Here's the money," Deeter opened the briefcase he was holding to show what on the surface at least looked like a thousand dollars, "Or at least what they'll think is money. As you can see, they're fake on one side. There's also a chemical substance here that'll mark the bills if they try and take them out. And a radio transmitter hidden in the back here," he opened two false backs on the suitcase to reveal the transmitter.

"Actually, Mr. Deeter, I'd rather we just give them the real money," Trevor told him, "If they realize we faked them, they could hurt Sharona in retribution."

"But if they don't know, we'll have half the job done," Ford countered, "Now we'll tell them we want it done at Marshall Fields ground floor. We'll have agents stationed outside ready to take down whoever grabs the briefcase."

"Please if we're going to do this, no agents," Trevor protested, "If they realize you're there, they could take Benjy out while he's fleeing."

"Mr. Fleming, you can trust us," Ford goaded him, "We're skilled professionals."

"Yeah, professionals at blowing stuff up and almost killing the hostages," Vecchio stepped into the office, "Don't listen to anything these clowns tell you, Trev; they're as incompetent as they come."

"You are not part of this conversation, Vecchio!" Ford shouted, "Lieutenant, order him out."

"Lieutenant, you've heard the sheer brilliance of their proposal," Vecchio told his boss, "If we give Captain Moron and the Idiotic Kid here any say in this matter, we'll have Mrs. Fleming and her son lying dead in the street—as well as a dozen innocent bystanders."

"At least we're actually doing work on the matter, Vecchio," Deeter derided him, "You've been nonexistent in this whole case."

"On the contrary, Agent Deeter, Detective Vecchio, in conjunction with Detective Monk and my associates, have made several significant strides in the case," Stottlemeyer interceded, "We have reason to believe that Frank Zuko is involved with the kidnapping in a significant way."

"That's impossible," Ford scoffed, "We've been watching Zuko ourselves for months; he was in Orlando at the time of the kidnapping."

"It's not impossible," Fraser spoke up, "There is reasonable enough doubt that Mr. Zuko may have somehow faked that trip to throw us all off."

"And where's your proof, Constable?" Ford asked him roughly.

"Well, we're still working on getting it together, so we're…"

"So in other words you can't prove it?" the FBI man told him, "I find it very interesting that none of you brought this to us."

"With all due respect, Agent Ford, we have reason to believe that there's a leak in the law enforcement personnel on the case," Fraser told him, "Amanda Graystone said just before she died that the kidnappers have a link to law enforcement officials. Would either you or Agent Deeter be selling us out?"

Ford advanced menacingly toward the Mountie. "How dare you have the gall to accuse us of cooperating with criminal scum," he said darkly, "The day we make agreements with crooks is the day Hell freezes over. And I think you're guilty of withholding evidence, Constable."

"Well we couldn't tell you; the kidnappers have Miss Teeger's daughter in their custody, and we can't in good faith risk that a child will be killed," Fraser gestured toward Natalie. "Please, can you send a man or two out west to look into it?" she pleaded the FBI men, "My daughter is everything to me, and…"

"Yeah sure, fine, once we get this over and done with, we'll look into your abduction claims," Deeter told her dismissively.

"My claims?" Natalie looked offended, "Mr. Deeter, this is not a claim, I saw the tape of her kidnapped with my own eyes! Now I would expect you to show some human decency with me here!"

"Well unfortunately you'll never get any of that from these bozos," Vecchio told her, "The only human emotion they'll ever show is egotism."

"You are seriously ticking me off here, Vecchio!" Ford thundered at him.

"And you've got me ticked off since we met again, pal!" Vecchio yelled back. A general argument broke out between the federal agents and the local police. Only Adrian wasn't arguing. He stood in the corner, nervous with the large crowd in the office and the fact that, due to Trevor's developing cold, the room was now infested with germs. "This is just perfect," he lamented to himself, trying to hold his breath to avoid airborne germs.

Finally, Welsh thumped his fist on his desk. "Enough!" he bellowed, causing the bickering to come to a stop. "Now," the lieutenant said firmly, "I know you all want to be in charge of this situation, but may I first get you back on track to the fact we're discussing a possible ransom transaction here, and secondly, the decision to go ahead with this is ultimately Mr. Fleming's. What do you think, Trevor?"

Trevor thought it over for a minute. "Well do it, but do the whole ransom drop, and do it with real money, and no cops near Marshall Fields," he said out loud.

"Well, we won't be able to pull the full five hundred million just yet, but we'll have a thousand in real money for your son," Ford told him, "We'll have as much real money as we can print up in the next couple of hours."

"That's good," Trevor sneezed again. Adrian ran out of the office, covering his face. "Yeah, you're really holding up quite well," Huey snorted sarcastically from his desk, having taken notice of the sneezing.

"You, you wouldn't happen to have disinfectant with you?" Adrian asked him, "I may have to do Lieutenant Welsh's whole office afterwards."

Huey shook his head sardonically. It was at that moment his phone rang. "Chicago police, Detective Huey speaking," he said into it. His eyes shot up to Adrian. "Yes, he's here, may I ask who's calling?" he said, "Oh, well in that case, here he is." He held the phone up to the former detective. "For you," he told him, "Some guy, says he's got something important to tell you."

"Thank you," Adrian dug out another wipe and cleaned down the receiver before putting it to his ear, "I'm Adrian Monk, what have you got?" he asked.

"Adrian Monk?" said a low, raspy voice that sounded nervous, "I may have information about the disappearance of your assistant. Meet me at the Comlex Warehouse in an hour."

"Can't you tell me here and now?" Adrian inquired.

"I can't," the informant said, "He's onto me."

"Who's he?"

"The six-fingered man."

Adrian's heart leaped. "Really?" he said excitedly, "Where is he? What's his connection to the…"

But suddenly the line went dead. "Hello?" Adrian asked, but there was no response. He slowly put the receiver down. It had been a long time since he'd felt the way he did now.

* * *

"I don't see any cars around here," Natalie told her boss as they pulled into the Comlex Warehouse parking lot, "Maybe he pulled a fast one on you."

'Well, it's not exactly an hour later; he could still come up," Adrian glanced out the window at the abandoned building looming before them. It looked completely deserted.

"I thought you were insensitive the other day, but these guys from the FBI outdo you at least ten to one," Natalie groused, "I spent five minutes asking them to look into Julie's disappearance after you walked out, and they completely shoved me off. I hate to speak ill of people, but Detective Vecchio was right about them; they are only in it for personal glory."

"I could tell," Adrian said, wiping away a smudge on the windshield.

"Tell me something, and I want you to be honest," Natalie looked him right in the eye, "If we find Sharona, are you going to try and rehire her? I'd just like to know ahead of time, so if you do, I can set my affairs in order."

"Will I rehire her?" Adrian stared back, "You want the truth? This truth is, I don't know. I just don't know."

"Well it's no secret that you have something special for her," Natalie commented, "There's no way I could forget how highly you'd speak of her when I first met you—over and over again, I might add. You really didn't want to see her leave, did you?"

"Well, um, the thing is, the thing about her leaving that really got me was the suddenness of it," Adrian admitted, "I mean, there was no advance warning whatsoever. One minute she's happily in my employment, and the next I'm scrambling to find a new assistant. I think if she'd given me a little heads-up, I'd've taken it a lot better. It's always been harder for me to say goodbye to people—since I've never had many real friends, I like to hold on to the people who are nice to me."

"Well then let me ask this; if you do rehire her, are you going to hold on to me?" Natalie had to know.

"I'd like to," Adrian cracked a very small smile, "I want to be able to hold on to you, Natalie. I may not want to, but I'd like to try."

Something caught his attention in the warehouse. "I think someone's up there," he pointed to the window in question, "Let's go see what he wants."

"Okay, but I still think something's not right here," Natalie told him as they climbed out of the car.

They entered the warehouse. "Anyone here?" Adrian called out to the seemingly deserted building, "Mr. Informant? Are you here? Is the six-fingered man here?"

"Doesn't look like it, but something smells terrible," Natalie cringed, pointing to the area the stench was coming from.

Adrian walked toward it, but stopped a good distance from the source, repulsed by what it was. "Elephant droppings," he commented, "They had Sharona here before."

"Well I don't think she's here now," Natalie walked in the opposite direction of the droppings, "If you see anything let me know, I'll go look in the back there."

"I'll, I'll go clean up a little," Adrian headed for the nearest stack of old boxes and started rearranging them in a pyramid, stopping several times to make them perfectly geometric. Then another anomaly caught his attention; an old book on a shelf next to the wall hanging out of place (the others were all neatly lined up). Adrian walked over and pulled up the book, intending to straighten it out…

And it was too late that he saw the wire attached to the back of the book. And the myriad beeping of armed explosives that clicked on all over the warehouse. He had just enough time, upon realizing what was about to happen, to scream toward Natalie, "RUN!" and taking a spectacular dive toward safety before the entire world burst into flames.

"Did you hear that, Ray?" Fraser held up his hand inside the Riviera.

"Sound like an explosion," Vecchio said. His face grew concerned. "And it sounds like it's from…"

"The Comlex Warehouse," Fraser knew immediately what had happened, "Drive, Ray."

"I told him it was probably a trap, but like he cared," Vecchio muttered as he accelerated as fast as he could toward the warehouse, "Most obvious trick in the book, and he fell for it."

"Well there was no way of knowing that it wasn't a legitimate call, Ray; for all we know, this six-fingered man of his could very well be behind…oh dear."

"They'd reached the warehouse…or what was left of it. It was now a sea of flames and thick smoke. Without a second thought, Fraser burst from the car and charged toward the burning building. "Benny, don't; there's no way they survived this!" Vecchio protested,but Fraser wasn't paying attention. He ran into the building, hunching low to get the remaining oxygen from the floor. "Adrian?" he cried out into the inferno, "Natalie?" Adrian?" He ducked a collapsing timber and forced his way into the center of the warehouse. The sight that met him there stunned him to the point where he could only say, "Oh dear."


	10. Adrian the Amnesiac

TEN

Stottlemeyer barreled into the hospital outpatient wing like a man possessed, Disher hot on his heels. "Constable Fraser!" he shouted toward the Mountie as he spotted him near the front desk. He ran up to him, "Constable, how's Monk?" he asked breathlessly.

"Is he alive? Is he conscious? Will he ever walk again? Any broken bones?" Disher asked in rapid fire.

"I think my question contains all yours in one, Randy!" Stottlemeyer shouted, likely out of concern for Adrian's health.

"Well gentlemen, in regards to all your questions, Detective Monk fortuitously managed to get partially behind one of the warehouse's support pillars just before the explosion occurred," Fraser informed them, "He's suffered a concussion and mild burns, but that thankfully is the extent of his damage. The doctors have informed me that he should be released within five minutes."

"Oh thank God," Stottlemeyer and Disher both heaved huge sighs of relief.

"Miss Teeger is another story though, I'm afraid," Fraser grew solemn, "She incurred the full force of the explosion and is presently on life support. Although her condition is stable at the moment, I'm told she could easily slip off into…well, let's not think negatively."

There was an awkward silence among all the law enforcement officials. "So, did you see anything inside the warehouse when you pulled them out that could help us figure out who did this?" Disher asked the Mountie.

"In fact I did," Fraser dug deep into his pocket, "It was lying near Detective Monk—where he'd fallen anyway. Otherwise I probably wouldn't have noticed it in my desire to protect human life. I think it was attached to one of the sets of explosives."

He handed Stottlemeyer a burnt scrap of paper. "Property of San Francisco Police Department Crime Lab, do not remove," the captain read off it. He turned to look at Disher. "So, one of our own's selling us out," he said, ashamed to be admitting it.

"But who'd want to go this far in the S.F.P.D. to eliminate Adrian Monk?" Disher asked out loud. Then the lieutenant snapped his fingers. "Richardson and Perkins. The cops we caught planting evidence on the drug dealers in Palo Alto. They want revenge."

"Why?" Stottlemeyer shook his head, "Monk had absolutely nothing to do with catching them, and he barely even knows them. Why would they go after him?"

"Good point," Disher conceded.

"Of course, it is possible that it is this six-fingered individual that Detective Monk has been tracking," Fraser pointed out, "There's no evidence to disprove that he is involved in this whole case, or that he's somehow part of your department. Indeed, I might…"

"Here he comes; Monk!" Stottlemeyer waved up the hallway. His friend was walking very slowly toward them, a strangely benign smile on his face. "Monk, we were so worried!" Stottlemeyer ran up to him. Adrian looked back over his shoulder, as if he thought his boss was talking to someone else. "Did get a look at who did this to you and Natalie, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Who, who are you talking to?" Adrian asked.

"You, Monk," Stottlemeyer was puzzled.

"Monk? Who the hell's Monk?" the detective looked equally puzzled.

"You are. You know that, don't you?"

"I don't know any Monk. I'm Les Lackawaxen, garbage man, you should know that," Adrian told him.

"Les Lackawaxen, garbage man?" Stottlemeyer shot a glance at Fraser and Disher. Turning back to Adrian he said, "Look, I think you're just going through some kind of post-surgery thing. Your name's Adrian Monk, you're a private consultant to the San Francisco Police, I'm Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, your former watch commander, you've helped me on numerous cases that I couldn't…what's so funny?"

Adrian had burst into laughter. "Boy do you have the wrong guy!" he exclaimed, "I've never seen you before in my life. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to the dump; my truck's parked outside, and the engine's running."

He started to walk away. Stottlemeyer took hold of his shoulder. "Listen to me Monk,…" he tried to say.

"The name's Les Lackawaxen, buddy!" Adrian pushed him off, "And don't be harassing me, or I'll call the police! I have to get back to work!"

"Monk, would you just…?"

"Help, police, assault, murder!" Adrian cried out, shaking Stottlemeyer in an apparent attempt to simulate an attack. From the elevators, Vecchio came running up. "Hey what the hell's going on here?" he demanded at the sight of the fracas.

"Well, Detective Monk seems to have contracted a severe case of amnesia as a result of being in the explosion, Ray," Fraser told him, "In an incredible irony, he now believes himself to be a garbage man."

"Les Lackawaxen's the name," Adrian vigorously pumped Vecchio's hand, "Thank God you came, officer. This man's stalking me."

He pointed to the aghast Stottlemeyer. "I have no idea what's happening," Stottlemeyer told the Chicago cop.

"Cuff him and rough him up, if you will," Adrian asked Vecchio, "I've got work on the streets to do; garbage is piling up to the roof without me on the beat; give me that, toots."

He snatched a half-drunken bottle of soda off a passing nurse and downed it completely. Tossing it carelessly on the floor, he trotted off, singing softly, "We've got the touch, America, and we're coming home with all the best; we've got the touch, America, you and CBS." Everyone stared after him, agog. "Lieutenant, follow him and don't let him get away," Stottlemeyer ordered Disher, "That man needs serious help."

"Indeed sir," Disher ran after Adrian, who was already inside an elevator crowded to the brim with people that were heading down toward the ground floor. "That," Vecchio pointed after the befuddled detective, "Is the most bizarre thing I've seen him do yet. Even you weren't that crazy when you had amnesia, Benny."

"He had it too?" Stottlemeyer glanced at Fraser.

"Yes, Captain, but it thankfully did not involve as drastic a change in personality as we have just seen," Fraser admitted.

"So in the meantime, tell me you've linked this explosion to Zuko?" Vecchio pleaded the Mountie.

"Well Ray, although it is indeed likely—approximately 61.4923 percent certain—that Frank Zuko masterminded this explosion, we were unable to find any direct evidence to connect him with it," Fraser said, "Plus, if he did plan and execute it, he had assistance from a turncoat in the San Francisco Police Department."

He showed Vecchio the evidence he'd collected. "I see," Vecchio nodded, "Well, I should probably tell you, the good Doctor DiNardo may well be involved after all. The feds raided his office in New Jersey. They found a whole closet full of dead grannies and three pounds of burned documents. They can't make out what they said, but it looks like he had a lot of skeletons in the closet; both literally and figuratively. Plus he tried to bolt this afternoon; they caught him halfway to Midway. Maybe your pal Detective Monk was wrong about him."

"We can't prove he isn't yet," Stottlemeyer argued, "I saw him crack a case with burned files before; the killer picked out a random file and burned it to throw the authorities off track. Of course, that was just one file and not three pounds of it, but it might still be a framing attempt on the Doc. And why would he look to us to get rid of Monk? I don't think he could ever have met any of our cops. Did anything else pop up, Detective?"

"In fact yeah; they just found a headless corpse in Lake Michigan," Vecchio said, digging out some photos, "They've identified him as Robert Anderson, a convenient store owner from New Jersey. And take a look at what he looked like when he still had a head."

He handed Stottlemeyer the photo in question. He whistled. "Almost exactly like our friend Mr. Zuko," the captain said, "This explains a lot, I think. If we can get Monk back to normal, he could probably figure it out."

Disher came running back, panting heavily, "I'm sorry Captain, Monk got away," he said.

"So which way did he go?" an impatient Stottlemeyer asked.

"I don't know," Disher told him, "He sort of vanished into a large crowd in the lobby, and I sort of, you know…"

"Great!" the captain slapped his head in disgust, "Adrian Monk is lost in the third biggest city in America with amnesia that he's a garbage man. He could tear the whole city up before we find him."

"Well if he tears up the city, pal, he should be pretty easy to find, but I'm not going to let him do it," Vecchio said, "Everybody follow me, we've got to stop him before he causes extensive damage."

"I'll be there in a minute, Ray," Fraser walked up to the front desk. "Miss, call this number for the precinct and ask for Lieutenant Welsh," he told the receptionist, handing her a paper, "Tell him I'm requesting a guard on Miss Teeger's door, just in case the attempted killers try and come to finish her off. Also call Detective Vecchio cell number there if she takes a turn for the…well, it would probably be better to think positive."

* * *

"I can't see the wolf anymore," Stottlemeyer complained, leaning halfway out the Riveira's window with his eye on the crowded sidewalk of Wacker Drive.

"I can still smell him," Fraser sniffed the early evening air, "He turned right here, Ray. And he seems to have just defecated as well."

"Oh no!" Vecchio cringed in disgust at the thought.

"Oh yes," Fraser said.

"Wait a minute, up there," Disher abruptly pointed. Vecchio slammed on the brakes. "What, what is it?" he asked.

"I think that's Larry and Balki's apartment up there," Disher pointed to the building on the left, "I loved that show. I'd tune in every Friday night to…"

"Randy, they shot the damn show on a soundstage in Burbank!" Stottlemeyer yelled at him, "Now do you see Monk or not?"

"Uh, no," Disher admitted.

"Dief turned right again," Fraser was still tracking his pet, "He's stopped. There he is."

Vecchio screeched to a stop again…and was promptly rear-ended by the cars behind him. "Hey, I'm stopping here!" the Chicago cop yelled back at the honking horns and shouting motorists. He eased over to the curb and immediately hopped out to assess the damage to his beloved vehicle. "Not too bad, thank God," he sighed in relief.

"Good work, Diefenbaker," Fraser scratched the wolf affectionately behind the ears, "You're just as good with following trails in an urban setting as you are with…oh dear."

He glanced up at the sign over the bar they'd traced Adrian to. A male lesbian strip bar, to be exact. "Oh dear God," Stottlemeyer felt pretty much the same way as Fraser did as he looked up at the sign himself, "Monk must be seriously amnesic to come here."

"How do you propose we get him to his senses, sir?" Disher asked his superior.

"Well try and talk him into remembering who he is," Stottlemeyer said, "If that doesn't work, we'll try hitting over the head with something heavy."

"Just so you know, I don't have a rubber hose, or even a nightstick, so you've got to make do with whatever we find in there," Vecchio told them.

The four of them—and Diefenbaker—entered the bar, which was already swinging with people of unclear sexual orientations. The strippers were fast at work doing their dubious trade, and were being egged on by the customers, some of whom looked well over eighty. "Excuse me madam…or sir, whatever the case may be," Fraser asked the first person (possibly a bisexual) he saw, holding up a picture of Adrian, "Where in here might we find this gentleman?"

"Over there, having the time of his life,' the person said in a gender-uncertain voice. He/She pointed to the sound of raucous laughter at the far end of the bar. A very familiar laugh. "Thank you kindly," Fraser tipped his Stetson to his informant.

"Monk?" Stottlemeyer rushed up to the detective, who looked about as drunk as a human being could possibly be, "Monk, what the hell are you doing? What the hell have you done to your hair?"

"Oh you again?" Adrian snorted, apparently not caring that he had dressed himself in a filthy garbage man suit—or that he'd dyed his hair red and pierced his ears, "Why won't you leave me alone? Bartender, call the cops! This man's stalking me!"

"Hold it!" Stottlemeyer yelled to the bartender, flashing his badge, "I am the police. This man has amnesia, we're taking him home before he hurts someone, most likely himself."

"Monk, you've been drinking?" Disher gasped at the empty beer glasses before him, "How many have you had?"

"Probably about seven or eight, if it's really any of your business, sonny," Adrian told him off with a burp."

"You listen to Jay-Z?" The tape of the volatile entertainer's work in the detective's CD player equally shocked Vecchio.

"He's great," Adrian said, "Don't you just love his song where he's loving that woman all night long?"

Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes in disgust, "All right, listen to me," he told the detective, "Your name is not Lester Lancaster or whatever…."

"It's Les Lackawaxen, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop following me, pal," Adrian told him icily.

"You do not work at a dump; you'd never even be caught dead in one," Stottlemeyer continued, trying to stay as calm as he could, "You work as a police consultant for us in San Francisco. Here, do you recognize her?"

He held up a wallet-sized photo of Trudy. Adrian squinted at it. "Catherine O'Hara?" he guessed.

"No, you moron, it's your wife; don't tell me you don't remember Trudy?" Stottlemeyer pressed him.

"Trudy," Adrian grew thoughtful, "Wasn't she Leo the butcher's three hundred pound wife who went out and…?"

Stottlemeyer groaned in frustration. "Allow me, Captain," Fraser told him. The Mountie sat down next to his drunken associate. "Wow!" Adrian exclaimed at the sight of him, "Halloween must be really early this year! I haven't even bought my costume yet."

"No, this is my uniform," Fraser explained, "You must remember me somewhere in your subconscious. Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. You've come here to the Windy City on your assistant's trail. You must remember Sharona, don't you, Detective?"

"No, but I did love her song when I was younger," Adrian admitted. He held up his glass to the Mountie. "Care for a shot?"

"No, I never drink," Fraser said, "And technically, neither do you."

"What are you talking about, I've been drinking since I was sixteen; you can ask both of my fathers; here you go, Cujo," Adrian held the glass down to Diefenbaker, who lapped up about half the glass. The confused detective then patted the wolf on the head and proceeded to down the rest of the glass himself, much to the detriment of everyone else. "And I thought you were bad enough when you'd never touch the stuff!" Vecchio groaned, utterly repulsed.

"Detective Monk, you must remember something," Fraser wasn't giving up quite yet, "You yourself told me about the theater case, where Sharona's sister was framed by her understudy, don't you remember that? She poured peanut oil over the apples the actor ate, and after he had an allergic reaction, her father came on stage posing as a doctor and stabbed him. You went on stage and almost had a coronary before you solved the case. Now surely that's in your subconscious."

"Acting? I've never like the stage," Adrian told him, "I always wanted to pull trash. When I was a young boy in Walla Walla, I'd roll around in it after my fathers put it out on the curb for the night. What a feeling it was, to be…"

"All right, that's it!" Stottlemeyer had had enough. The captain strode up the bar. "Police, I'm commandeering your beer," he told a patron with a bottle of Coors, flashing his badge. The customer handed it to him with a pale expression. Stottlemeyer raised it high in the air over Adrian's head, but at the last minute the detective got up and walked toward the bathrooms, causing the intended blow to miss. Stottlemeyer rapped on the door. "Come on out of there, Monk, I've got something for you," he said.

"I'm busy right now," the detective said.

"You've got till three!" the captain bellowed.

"A.m. or p.m.?"

"Not three o'clock, the count of three!" Stottlemeyer yelled, "One, two…!"

And then there was the sound of the bathroom window smashing open. Stottlemeyer yanked the door open to find the toilet deserted. "Out front, up the alley!" he yelled to the others.

By the time they'd gotten there, however, there was absolutely no trace of the amnesic detective in the alley or anywhere. "Perfect!" Vecchio kicked a trashcan in disgust, "I just know he's going to blow something up, I just know it, and I'm going to be held responsible for it!"

"Oh how could you be held responsible for that, Ray?" Fraser had to know.

"Trust me, I will," Vecchio checked his watch, "And we can't follow him, because the drop's in an hour; I'm not letting Ford and Deeter go ahead with their big glory run."

"Right," Stottlemeyer nodded, "Monk'll pop up again in due time…probably at the dump. Surprise of the century. What is it, Randy?"

The lieutenant was grinning from ear to ear. "Oh nothing, it's just, the thought of Adrian Monk as a garbage man," he snorted with laughter.

"I know, it's hysterical," Stottlemeyer conceded, "He's in for the shock of a lifetime when he comes to "

"Did I miss anything?" came a new voice that only Fraser could hear. "Oh, uh, not really, Dad," Fraser walked back toward his father where he stood by the wall, "Detective Monk is wandering around the city with the delusion that he's a garbage man. I wonder, could there be anything you could do to alleviate his symptoms? His know-how is quite necessary to bring this case to a successful conclusion."

"I don't think I could help, but I think I know someone who can," Fraser Senior told him, "I'll see you in about a half hour. Have to go make some arrangements." And with that he vanished into thin air.

"Hey, who were you talking to?" Disher had been looking over Fraser's shoulder.

"Uh, I'm not at liberty to say," Fraser said quickly.

"I see," Disher nodded slowly. As they walked back up the alley, the lieutenant said to himself, "Must be a Canadian thing."


	11. A New Low for Our Hero

ELEVEN

"All units, report in," Ford said into his walkie-talkie on the roof of the building across from Marshall Fields.

"Unit One, reporting in," said the first one down the block. The other five units affirmed their positions in turn. "Keep a strong lookout; we don't know for sure who these guys are yet," their boss told them.

"Agent Ford, not that I'm complaining or anything along those lines, but I thought you'd agreed with Trevor that there would be no cops around during the exchange?" Stottlemeyer had to ask him.

"Well, I always like to play things safe, Captain," Ford told him, "It's certainly not going to hurt Fleming if we're here."

"Well, all I'm saying is that you should just be a little careful and not shoot at anything that…" Stottlemeyer tried to say.

"Captain, as I said before, we are trained professionals at what we do," Deeter told him shortly, "Now you and your friend," he nodded toward Disher, who was staking out the corner of the roof, "Are here as observers only, and as such you have no authority to tell us what we can or can't do. Is that perfectly clear?"

"Oh yes, drill sergeant, perfectly clear," Stottlemeyer said sardonically. Deeter gave him a cold look and walked back over to the edge of the building. Stottlemeyer checked to make sure no one was looking, then opened his coat and said to the radio inside, "Anything yet, Constable?"

Inside the Riviera around the corner, Fraser picked up the radio. "No activity of a suspicious nature yet, Captain," he told him, "I have a feeling that things may not go as is typical for a crime as of this."

"I've had the same feeling myself," Stottlemeyer admitted, "There's just something about this whole case that's off. Let me know if you see anyone or anything suspicious first."

"I will," Fraser signed off. He pulled out his telescope and scanned the street. "So, what do you think, Fraser?" Vecchio asked, glancing toward the Marshall Fields entrance.

"To be honest, Ray, I don't think they'll release the Flemings' son even if they receive the thousand dollars," Fraser admitted, not taking his eyes off the telescope.

"Why not?" Vecchio was puzzled, "We've done everything they've asked us to."

"We have, yes, but my instincts are now telling me that they want to hold on to him," Fraser said, "All the evidence we have indicates the kidnappers wanted his mother more than him, yet they grabbed him first when they took him. There's an intrinsic value they put on him, and therefore it's unlikely they'll release him."

"But why, unless he saw a hit?" Vecchio had to know.

"I don't think that's it, Ray," Fraser said, "There's something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on. If Detective Monk was here and in control of his functions, he'd probably be able to figure it out."

"But he's not, thank God for my nerves' sake," Vecchio said. He checked his watch. "I'm going to get a hoagie, Benny; yell if you see anything."

"Right Ray," Fraser nodded. No sooner had Vecchio left then his father's voice rippled up from the back seat, "I was hoping we'd be alone, son, and it looks like I got my wish."

Fraser turned. Robert Fraser was reclining in the back seat, scratching Diefenbaker behind the ears. And with him was a young woman whom Fraser had never seen in person. But he knew immediately who she was. "I take it your name in life was Gertrude Ann Ellison Monk?" he asked her.

"Yes," Trudy said, smiling, "Your father traveled at least half of the beyond to find me an hour ago, Benton. He said only I could help bring Adrian to his senses."

"Well, now that I think of it, seeing you probably would help, although the problem is, I do not know your husband's whereabouts at this juncture," Fraser admitted to her, "Perhaps we'll be fortunate, and he'll come upon us, though."

"Does he really think he's a garbage man?" Trudy asked him.

"Yes, ironic as it is," Fraser told her.

Trudy couldn't help laughing. "So, tell me son, how's the case coming?" Fraser Senior asked him, "Apart from your comrade in the law losing his memory, that is."

"Well, as I was just relating to Detective Vecchio before you and Mrs. Monk arrived, I suspect the kidnappers are going to not release the Fleming boy as the FBI and ourselves wish," Fraser told him, "I have a gut instinct that they intend to hold him indefinitely, even after—assuming they will, that is—they release his mother. Now ransoming people is not in the normal nature of the mob, even in Canada, so I can't help but wonder if Detective Monk's ascension to this case necessitated a change in strategy among our kidnappers."

"Very interesting," Fraser Senior took all he'd been told in, "Well, it appears then there might be more to this than we all thought. Now I believe you and the detective were talking on your way to here that you'd like to prove that the man you think was responsible for this didn't get on the airplane that all the evidence says he did?"

"Oh, you were listening in on…?" Fraser frowned briefly, "Well yes, Dad, I'm suspecting that Frank Zuko somehow switched places with this Bob Anderson from New Jersey, but the airport has noted to us that Mr. Anderson got on a plane to go back to New Jersey not more than five minutes after Mr. Zuko boarded his plane to Orlando. We're still trying to work out the logistics of how he may have been able to pull off…"

"Constable, be alert; we're sending Trevor in with the money now," came Stottlemeyer's voice over the radio.

"Roger that Captain," Fraser told him. He leaned out the window. "Ray, we're making the transaction now," he called to his friend, who was coming up the sidewalk, hoagie in hand.

"Is that there best idea of a layout for a ransom transaction?" Fraser Senior commented, pointing up at the FBI agents visible on the rooftops, "That's too obvious. The deviants could see them a mile away."

"Yes, I know that," his son agreed.

"Know what?" Vecchio inquired as he got back into the car.

"That the FBI hasn't chosen the best layout for their forces for this transaction," the Mountie said.

"I know, I've been saying that since the station," Vecchio said, frowning, "You haven't been having one of those imaginary conversations again, have you Fraser?"

"Actually yes, Ray," Fraser admitted.

"Figures," Vecchio shrugged, "Ten bucks says my dad shows up again."

"No he likely won't, Detective," Fraser Senior said, even though Vecchio couldn't hear him, "He's sitting on a beach in Curacao, sunburning his vapor off. Very strange man, never really all that responsible."

On the roof, Stottlemeyer and the others watched as Trevor walked into the department store, the suitcase of money in his hands. Ford switched on a bank of monitors connected to cameras hidden throughout the department store. "All agents in the building, be on high alert," he ordered them.

"So, who do you think it's going to be?" Disher asked, surveying the customers milling all over the store.

"Could be anyone," his boss said, "For all we know, this Frank Zuko guy could have picked some poor shlub up off the street and forced him to pick up the money."

"I called back home while you were all setting up," Disher went on, "Sergeant Morrison said he found almost three tons of confiscated explosives stolen from the arms warehouse. It matches the ones used in the explosion earlier today."

"Does he have any idea who took them?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"They're investigating," Disher said, "There's no fingerprints, and you know that anyone on the force could have had access to the warehouse."

"Yeah, I know," Stottlemeyer nodded.

"Shhhhh!" Deeter hissed at them. Trevor had reached the drop point and had laid down the briefcase. "All right, let it there," Ford instructed him through an earphone, "We'll nail the first guy who touches it. Don't look suspicious."

Trevor walked back outside. Everyone watched the screens with anticipation, waiting to see who would be the first person to take the money.

An hour passed. And then a second and a third. The crowds started slowly thinning out as it got closer to closing time. The briefcase remained exactly where it had been left, with nobody even noticing it, much to the surprise of the observers. Ten o'clock rolled around, and the store officially shut down for the night. After another half hour of waiting, in which there was no sign of activity from anyone who might have been hiding inside the store, Ford shook his head. "They must have not gotten the message," he mused, "Get Fleming to retrieve the money. We'll pay it with his wife's cash tomorrow night."

Down in the Riviera, Fraser glanced at his watch. "If they're going to make a move, it'll probably be now," he commented, "Right when everyone's guard's down."

"Makes sense," his father said, "I saw this once, when we were assigned to apprehend a group of socialist insurgents that had been besieging a mining operation just outside of…"

Fraser made a silence gesture to him as the radio blared on again. "Keep your eyes open, we're getting the money back," Stottlemeyer informed them.

"Hmm," Fraser looked out through his telescope again, "There's something that's just not right here…"

"Who are you talking to?" Ford asked Stottlemeyer, noticing him talking into his coat.

"Uh, myself," Stottlemeyer said quickly.

"Did you invite the Mountie?" the federal agent demanded, "If you did, let me…"

"Take a look at this," Deeter pointed to the monitors. Trevor had picked up the briefcase, but he was now glancing down the escalator, almost as if someone was calling him. He abruptly walked down it and disappeared from sight. "What's he doing?" Ford asked.

Deeter hit the buttons to change monitor settings. Trevor was no longer visible on any of them. "How come we didn't cover that angle?" he muttered out loud.

"Wait, let's see if he comes back," Stottlemeyer held up his hand. After a two-minute wait, however, Trevor didn't reappear. "Attention all units, conduit missing," Ford yelled into the radio, "Seek and recover."

Down in the Riviera, Diefenbaker started barking as federal agents poured toward the department store. "Ray, head for the parking garage," Fraser said, jumping out, "I think they're at it."

"Wait for me, son," Fraser Senior hopped out of the car after him, "I don't want to miss this."

"Very well, but I don't really see what you can do, Dad," his son said, pushing past several feds on their way to the escalators. "That way!" one of them pointed down the one leading to the parking garage, at the bottom of which Trevor lay on the floor. "It was Doctor DiNardo!" he cried to the law enforcement officials, rubbing a large red mark on his forehead, "He hit me and took the money! Hurry, he's getting away!"

"Do you need any medical aid?" Fraser asked him as the feds charged into the parking garage, rifles cocked.

"No, I'm fine," Trevor said, rising to his feet, "He only hit a glancing blow."

"There he goes!" shouted a federal marshal, pointing at a blue Crown Victoria peeling across the garage recklessly. "Yes. That's him," Fraser acknowledged, recognizing DiNardo behind the wheel. He started to run after it, almost slipping on a pile of lead pipes stacked near the door. "May I suggest turning left here and heading up those stairs to the next level to cut him off?" Fraser Senior suggested, jogging alongside him.

"That is the strategy I had in mind, Dad," Fraser said patiently, climbing up the stairs to the next level…

Where he was almost hit by an errant garbage truck barreling through the parking garage. The driver of which he recognized immediately. "Adrian!" he called to the amnesic detective. But the engine of the truck was roaring too loudly for him to be heard.

"I'd better go get his wife," Fraser Senior announced, "You just make sure the suspect doesn't get away." And with that he vanished again.

* * *

"Standing tall on the wings of my dreams," Adrian was blissfully singing along with his radio, feeling higher than he had in years, "Rise and fall on the wings of my dreams. Rain and thunder, wind and haze, I'm bound for better days. It's my life,…"

"Adrian," came a sudden voice to his right. Arian spun abruptly to find Trudy there. "How'd you get in here, miss?" he asked her.

"Adrian, please remember who you are," Trudy told him.

"How many times do I have to tell people, my name is Les Lackawaxen," the detective said, "And I'm running my route right now. I'll go to your place later."

"Please remember," Trudy pleaded him, "You were the bright light that made my life worth living, as I was for yours. Don't you remember 'bread and butter?'"

"Bread and butter?" Adrian looked thoughtfully at her. "No, that doesn't really ring any…"

Trudy kissed him passionately on the lips. Adrian stared at her, everything clearing up. "Trudy?" he asked, "How'd you…?"

Trudy pointed out the windshield. Too late Adrian saw DiNardo's car coming toward him. He cried out and slammed on the brakes, but not in time to prevent the car from slamming into the front of the truck and exploding. Coughing, the detective slumped to the floor of the cab to escape the flames and smoke. He felt Trudy's hand taking him by the arm and pulling him out of the garbage truck. She laid him down on the garage floor. "Thanks," he said, looking up lovingly into her eyes.

"I'm here for you," she said, stroking his face, "Just think of me and I'll be there."

"There was the sound of boots on the pavement as Fraser ran up. "Adrian, are you all right?" he asked, leaning over the detective.

"What happened?" Adrian looked around, "Where am I?"

"We're underneath Marshall Fields, and I think the suspect is dead," Fraser looked over the smoldering wreck of the car.

"What?" Adrian looked shocked, "How'd…why…I didn't….oh God, don't tell me Benjy was in there?"

"Thankfully he wasn't," Fraser reassured him, "It was just Doctor DiNardo, and judging by the intensity of the explosion, that car was rigged to blow."

"So DiNardo was in on it?" Adrian looked shocked that he may have been off, "I didn't mean to run into him like…am I going to get nailed for this?"

"Most likely," Fraser admitted, "But maybe if we explain nicely how you had amnesia that you were a garbage man, they would…."

"Garbage man?" Adrian looked down at his garb. He shrieked at the garbage on his suit and ran around in panic. Fraser nodded. "Good work," he told Trudy, "It's good to have him back."

* * *

"Detective Monk, what you did was reckless and irresponsible!" Ford shouted at him the next morning in Welsh's office, "Thanks to your blatant lack of judgment, we've lost the kidnapper. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Would, would it help if I said I was sorry to the city?" Adrian tried to force an innocent smile.

"Detective Monk was suffering from amnesia that he was a garbage man," Fraser tried to intercede on the detective's behalf, "He was unaware that he was going to be in that garage at that time. It was a complete accident that he hit…"

"Hello, are we talking to you, Constable?" Deeter told him curtly, "I don't think we are. And in case you want to argue on his behalf, let me point out that because this was botched, the kidnappers are now demanding a billion dollars even. It's going to take us all day to get another five hundred million and print up the phony bills to trick them with. And if we lose the kid, Detective, I hope you realize it's your fault, because you botched everything for this job."

"It's not just Dr. DiNardo, someone else is behind all this!" Adrian tried one more time to get the federal agents to see his point of view, "One man could not have set that explosion that almost killed me and could still kill Natalie. And what about Frank Zuko's man trying to kill us?"

"Your hit man hasn't confessed to anything, and therefore it's all but certain you've got the wrong lead," Ford told him off.

"He's never completely wrong," Stottlemeyer protested, "If you gentlemen would just listen to some of the things he says, we might have been…

The phone rang before he could say anything further. Welsh picked it up, "Lieutenant Welsh speaking," he said. "Ah, I see. He's right here. Your commissioner, Detective," he said to Adrian, "I think we'd all like to hear this."

He pressed the button to the line. "Good morning Adrian Monk," came Commissioner Brooks's sour voice over the line, "Word just got back to me about your terrific show in Chicago. I knew letting you out there was a mistake, and now you're going to pay for it."

"Commissioner, Monk was suffering from amnesia," Stottlemeyer told him, "You need to be fair with…"

"You're not saving him this time, Captain," the commissioner told him off, "As for you, Monk, it's nine thirty right now. I want you on the flight back to San Francisco at two, or else."

"Commissioner, please,…" Disher tried to say.

"End of discussion," Commissioner Brooks hung up. "As the man said," Ford told the detective, "We'll have someone escort you to the airport and put you on that flight home. Upon arriving back in Frisco, you'll be placed under house arrest until this case is resolved, at which point you'll be transferred to Washington to stand trial for interfering with a federal investigation, which carries a maximum of fifty years in prison, and we intend…"

"Now look here you little weasel!" Stottlemeyer rose menacingly to his feet, "This is completely unfair! If you arrest Detective Monk, I'll…!"

"Sit your fat rear down unless you want to be arrested too, Captain!" Ford threatened him.

"Detective Monk is innocent of what you're accusing him of!" Stottlemeyer continued to rant, "You know what I think, I think…!"

"I think we all need to cool down a little bit," Welsh interceded, "Why don't we all step outside and let the federal marshals finish what they were saying to the nice disgraced detective, gentlemen?"

"Permission to speak freely, Leftenant," Fraser spoke up.

"Oh yes, by all means," Welsh shrugged, by now used to such requests from the Mountie.

"I think we're letting what was an unfortunate accident cloud our judgment and unity in the matter," Fraser told them all, "Instead of bickering amongst ourselves, why don't we work together and come up with a plan on how to…"

"Unfortunate accident? Constable, in case you didn't notice, the kidnapper died because Detective Monk couldn't watch where he was going," Deeter told him, "That's guilty as hell as far as we're concerned. Now may we have our moment alone with him, please?"

"I suppose you can, but let me advise you and Agent Ford not to do anything you'll regret," Fraser said as he and everyone else field out of the office. Ford locked the door after them and started drawing the office blinds. "You know what your problems is?" he told Adrian, who had an unpleasant expression on his face, apparently knowing what was coming next.

"I get amnesia when I shouldn't?" Adrian guessed, forcing a smile.

"Well, that's one problem, to be sure," Ford took off his badge and gun and put them on the desk. Deeter did the same. "Your problem, Detective Monk, is that you never know when the hell to STAY OFF OUR TURF!"

Without any warning, Deeter hauled Adrian to his feet and pinned his arms behind his back. Ford started punching the detective like there was no tomorrow. "That was our man!" the enraged agent bellowed as he landed punch after brutal punch, "We had him dead to rights and you took him away from us! Well you're not getting away from this without paying, you retarded jerk!"

"I think I get your message," Adrian groaned, unable to do much to defend himself. Ford delivered a concluding combination punch to his chest. "Pack your things!" he demanded as Deeter loosened his hold, letting Adrian crumple to the floor, "And if I find you don't get on that flight, I'll shoot you myself, am I perfectly clear?"

"Absolutely," Adrian picked himself up and dusted himself off.

"And remember, this never happened," Deeter warned him, "Understand?"

Adrian nodded; anything to prevent further violence. "Could I stop by the hospital and visit Natalie, you know, just to say goodbye in case she doesn't…?"

Ford growled and looked at his watch. "You have a half hour, starting now!" he muttered, unlocking the door. Adrian hurriedly left the room.

"Permission to accompany Detective Monk to the airport?" Fraser inquired the detectives from his post outside the door.

"Oh sure, please do," Ford told him, "In fact, do us a big favor and get on the plane with him, so we won't have to put up with you anymore either, Constable."

"I can't do that, Agent Ford, with all due respect," Fraser told him in a tone that hinted that he knew exactly what had just happened.

"Well, what are you standing around here for, go get rid of him!" Ford waved him off. Fraser nodded and walked over to the corner of the squad room, where Adrian was leaning against the wall, a blank look on his face. "Why don't you tell Leftenant Welsh, he'll believe you," he urged the detective.

"Why bother?" Adrian shrugged, "They're right. I blew their chance at it. I'd better just leave before someone else gets killed."

"Might does not make right, Adrian," Fraser said emphatically, "Especially in their case."

"Constable, I appreciate your efforts, but I'm on a time limit," Adrian said, shuffling toward the door, "I may never see Natalie again if she goes."

"I understand," Fraser nodded, "We'll stop by my place to get your belongings."

Adrian nodded and walked outside, his shoulders heavily sagging.


	12. An Unexpected Epiphany

TWELVE

It was very quiet and somber in the solemn confines of Natalie's hospital room. Mostly because Natalie remained in a coma and couldn't talk with her boos, who sat drearily on a chair at the foot of the bed, staring at the floor. Behind him, Fraser patted him comfortingly on the shoulder. "It wasn't your fault, Adrian, you have to realize that," the Mountie tried to reassure him.

"I should have known better," Adrian said dismally, "It was an obvious trap and I fell for it. It's almost like a pattern; everyone around me gets hurt or leaves."

"Now you now that's now true at all, Adrian."

"Is it?" Adrian's voice uncharacteristically rose, "Just look at everything, Constable: my dad leaves me, my mom dies, Trudy dies, Natalie's probably going to die, Sharona leaves, and now she and Benjy are going to die! And on top of that, I shove away my brother for seven years because I think he was insensitive to me. The fact is, I'm cursed, it's as simple as that!" And for only the second time in his life, he burst into uncontrollable tears, "Oh God, I'm so cursed!" he sobbed, "Why couldn't I just be normal, like everyone else on this planet?"

"Adrian," Trudy had materialized next to him again, "Adrian, please don't say that. I like you just the way you are. You are not responsible for me being dead, you understand that?"

"The fact is, Trudy, I still feel responsible," he told her, taking her by her vaporous hand, "You have no idea how much I'd just want to jump out that window there and be with you forever."

"Killing yourself won't solve anything, Detective Monk," Fraser Senior had also arrived now, "One of the saddest cases I ever investigated was that of a bright young man who drowned himself in Hudson Bay after failing to past muster for R.C.M.P. basic training. He was too disgraced to realize he could have taken the exam again, which is a complete shame because I would have liked working with him."

"Uh, Dad, I don't really think that's an entirely relevant example for this situation," his son told him.

"Adrian, he's right that you can't kill yourself," Trudy told him firmly but kindly, "I'm not ready to have you forever yet. There's still so much for you to do here in your world."

"Yeah, things for me to screw up," Adrian muttered sadly. He got up and folded Natalie's left arm across her chest so it would be perfectly symmetrical with her right one.

"Adrian, you are not a screw-up," Trudy continued to try and get him to stop being pessimistic, "Think of it; for every time you've screwed up, you've succeeded at least seven times over. Please, don't give up now, for me. I know in my heart you can solve this."

"You do?" Adrian stared at her.

"We all do, Adrian," Fraser added, "You are the best detective in the country—and quite possibly North America. I know this for a fact even though we've known each other only a couple of days."

Adrian looked Natalie over. His esteem and resolve slowly returned. "Right," he said, "Well, if we're going to do it, we'd better do it fast, before I have to go to the airport."

But just then Huey stuck his head in the door. "Time to go, Detective Monk," he told him, "Your flight leaves in an hour."

"Are you sure I can't have another fifteen minutes?" Adrian pleaded.

"I'm sorry, but we have to go," Huey gestured for them to leave. Adrian sighed and put his tuxedo back on. "Listen," he told Trudy, "Stay with Natalie. If she tries to cross over, push her back. She deserves to live."

"I'll do what I can," Trudy gave him a parting smile as she took hold of one of Natalie's hands (all the while still keeping it perfectly symmetrical as per her husband's preferences), "And you go do what you can. That's all we can ask for, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," Adrian waved goodbye. At least he could rest easier knowing Natalie was in good hands.

* * *

"All right,we know Frank Zuko carried out the kidnapping," the detective said out loud as he went through the metal detectors at Midway, "He switched places with Bob Anderson to throw himself off suspicion, then kidnapped Sharona and Benjy. The question is, how the hell did he do it after he got on the plane? And who is he taking orders from? What is it we're missing with this?"

"One thing is your passport," Huey handed it to him, "You put it in with the five dozen or so metal items you had in the dish, and if you can't get on that plane, I'll get in trouble with the feds."

"Rest assured, Detective, I would vouch for you in front of Agents Ford and Deeter if the situation arose," Fraser assured him. Turning to Adrian, the Mountie said, "Why don't we think this over from a different direction, Adrian. Who would stand the most benefit if Sharona were to vanish or die?"

"That's what I don't know!" Adrian shook his head wildly, "Why is it I can never solve any of the cases that hit closest to home for me? If only there was a new way for me to look at this, but they don't just drop out of the sky, unfortunately."

"Here's your flight, ready to take you home," Huey said, gesturing him down the gangway. Immediately, Adrian noticed the flight's identification number next to the boarding area. "Delta Flight 893?" he realized, "This is the flight Frank Zuko said he took to Florida. What do you think the odds of this being the plane are?"

"Probably close to the vicinity of 10,237,543.3954 to 1," Fraser summarized, looking equally thrilled at getting this freak breath of fresh air, "Detective Huey, you wouldn't mind if I got on board the plane as well?"

"Sure, why don't you do what the feds said and go with him?" Huey inquired sarcastically, you'll make things a lot less hectic with…"

"Hold it right there!" came the voice of the stewardess by the door to the plane. Adrian immediately recognized her as the embittered flight attendant he'd driven to drink when he and Sharona had flown to New Jersey a few years ago. "Hello," he waved at her.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, "You not getting on this plane! I am not going through a repeat of last time!"

"Detective Huey, Chicago P.D., Violent Crimes," Huey flashed his badge to her, "This man is under federal orders to get on your plane, Miss, and you're obliged to let him on."

"Can I see your paperwork?" she asked him.

"Here you are," Huey handed her the federal order to put Adrian on the plane…which she immediately tore up into little pieces. "There. Now he has no right at all to get on board," she told Huey smugly, "So get him away from my plane, A.S.A.P."

"Miss, you don't appreciate my situation," Huey said pleadingly, "If I don't put him on your plane, I'll be in big trouble."

"That's your problem," the stewardess told him, "I can call the air marshals and have them put you and him into custody if you don't leave."

Huey sighed. "I really don't want to do this," he muttered as he drew his gun and fired three warning shots into the ceiling of the gangway. "Don't make me aim them somewhere else," he told the stewardess.

"Please," she snorted, drawing a gun of her own and emptying two warning shots of her own into the floor. "I picked it up in case I ever met him again," she pointed to Adrian, "And I am not afraid to use it—on him or you!"

"Excuse me, could you shoot the floor one more time?" Adrian asked her, "He shot three times, and you only shot two."

"What?" she stared at him incredulously.

"If you could, could you shoot it here?" the detective pointed at a specific spot on the floor, "Then you'd have nice even geometric triangle with the bullet holes."

"Get out of here!" she bellowing ,waving her gun around wildly.

"I can't him out of here; I have my orders!" a frustrated Huey shouted at the stewardess, "I'm sick of this whole affair with him as well, but if you don't listen…!"

"Excuse me, Detective Huey," Adrian's face had lit up again, "Say what you just said again, please?"

"What did I say?" Huey looked puzzled.

"That last sentence you said while arguing with her."

"I said I'm sick of this whole affair with you, and if she doesn't…"

"That's it!" Adrian looked like he'd won the Super Bowl, "This whole affair. This…whole…affair." Without warning, he dashed onto the plane. The stewardess jumped into the middle of the aisle and raised her gun high. "Get off this plane, or you're dead meat!" she shouted into coach at him.

What followed was a mass panic as everyone in coach, apparently thinking she was yelling at one of them, jumped up and ran for the exit. "Not you, not you, please return to your seats!" she cried out to them as they accidentally knocked her to the ground. It the process, her gun accidentally discharged out the window, where the bullet hit the outboard starboard engine. Immediately, smoke and flames rose up from it.

"Adrian, have you figured something out?" Fraser stepped onto the plane.

Adrian ran back up to him, clutching a camera in his hand. "We'll have to return this to a Mrs. Betty Hibbard of Sacramento once we're done," he told the Mountie.

"Stealing cameras is a felony!" the stewardess shouted at him as she picked herself up, "I'm calling the marshals, Mr. Monk! As you can see, the engine's busted on that side, and it's because of you ignoring my warnings!"

"It's great, isn't it?" Adrian told her in an unnaturally happy voice, "Now we can keep this plane on the ground, it's evidence in a federal kidnapping case." Turning to Fraser he said, "I solved the case. I know how Zuko did it, and I know who he's taking orders from. We've got to get to the drop site."

"You can't, you have to stay on this plane!" Huey thundered.

"Detective Huey, are you so bound to federal orders that you'd be willing to risk the safety of an innocent child?" Fraser asked him.

"I don't have a choice, Fraser!" Huey told him.

"Yes you do, we all have choices in life," the Mountie said.

"Listen to him and get him off!" the stewardess yelled at Huey.

"You're seriously ticking me off, lady!" Huey yelled back, "Threatening an officer of the law with a gun is classified as assault; I hope you'd like Joliet, because that's where you're going if you don't agree to my demands!"

"It'll be worth it to get rid of him!" she told him curtly.

"I think you're seriously…!" it was then that Huey heard the sound of the airplane door clicking shut and locking. The detective ran to the door and pounded on it. "Open this door, Fraser!" he yelled to his associate, "I'll have your head for this!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Detective Huey, but you'll thank me later," Fraser said as he retracted the gangway from the plane, leaving Huey and the stewardess high and dry.

"You're to going to leave them like that?" Adrian asked as they walked back into the terminal, "The other passengers too, I mean. It's pretty claustrophobic in there, and they'll all have to use one restroom."

"We can inform the airport authorities of the matter, and they can take the necessary steps to assist in the passengers' needs," Fraser told him, "The important thing is that, as you said, the plane can't leave. So, what has this been all about? You'd said you'd figured it out."

"I can't tell you out loud, they might have followed us," Adrian said. He leaned close and instead whispered his theory in Fraser's ear. Fraser nodded emphatically. "Yes, of course, now that I think of it, that makes perfect sense," he said, "Of course, we're going to have to get positive proof of it." He noticed a bank of phones on their right. "You wouldn't happen to have a quarter on you, Adrian?"

"Give me a minute here," Adrian dug out his wallet and extracted from it a plastic bag of perfectly lined up quarters. "I bag and separate all my change," he informed the Mountie, "Makes it easier to find them when I need to."

"That makes sense," Fraser nodded. He took the quarter Adrian gave him and dialed the precinct. "Ray, it's me," he told his friend, "We know who did it. Meet us here at the airport; we need warrants to get the evidence. Yes, I know it'll be hard at this juncture, but the lives of everyone who's going to that drop site tonight are in terrible danger. Yes, I mean it. Do your best, Ray, I'll pay you back for it at a later time. Yes, thank you kindly."

He hung up and sprinted for the escalators to the lower levels, Adrian hot on his heels. "And I just realized, Adrian," the Mountie continued, "When he called this morning, your commissioner said something to the extent of, 'It's nine thirty right now, I want you on the plane by two.' Meaning he was operating on Central Time, not Pacific, as one would assume, indicating that he's not in San Francisco but here in Chicago and involved in the plot. But why would he be, I'm still wondering?"

"It was something Detective Vecchio said yesterday," Adrian told him, "He said that Frank Zuko's family had been investigated by the federal government, but that the case was called off at the last minute. I remembered that before he came to San Francisco, Commissioner Brooks was a federal investigator for the Midwest region at the time Detective Vecchio mentioned, and that he had experience working with the mob. I'm guessing Zuko's father bribed him off the case twenty years ago, and that Frank called him up and threatened to go public with the information that he took a dive unless the commissioner helped in the kidnapping. The information on Natalie's social security card was sent to him, and all Commissioner Brooks had to do was hire thugs off the street and have them pick up Julie using the address given to him—after he swore them to silence to protect himself, of course. As commissioner, he had the master keys to all our facilities, so it was very easy for him to pick up all the explosives that were stolen, and unless we can intercede, the rest of the explosives that haven't been detonated already will explode at the ransom drop tonight."

"One thing I don't understand is why your commissioner would risk coming out here for the transaction," Fraser admitted, "He's only further risking exposure by doing so."

"Zuko told him he would get a share of the billion dollar ransom demand for his efforts in eliminating me," Adrian told him, "but neither he nor Zuko apparently suspect they're about to be double-crossed."

They'd reached the curb and sat back to wait for Vecchio. It was about ten minutes later when the familiar green Riviera pulled into view. "What've you got for me, Benny?" the Chicago cop asked as he jumped out of the car.

"We've got concrete evidence of how Zuko was able to do it, Ray," Fraser said. He waited until after his friend had let out an ecstatic shriek of delight before continuing, "Did you have any success with the search warrant?"

"I'm working on it, but it's going to take some time," Vecchio informed them.

"Time we don't have," Adrian realized, "We've got to get it now if we want to stop them."

"Indeed; Ray, keys," Fraser extended his hand.

"What you think I'm going to…?" Vecchio tired to protest, but then Diefenbaker leaned his head out of the window and snatched the keys out of Vecchio's hands. The wolf dropped them to the ground at his master's feet. "Thank you kindly, Diefenbaker," Fraser patted his pet on the head, "Stay here, Ray; if Detective Huey comes here looking for us in an enraged mood, see if you can send him on a false trail, for the moment. Dief, stay with Ray and keep him company. This may take a while."

"Normally, I'd be happy to…hey Fraser!" Vecchio's protests went unheard as Fraser and Adrian jumped into his cart and drove off. He glanced down at Diefenbaker, who'd been let out by the Mountie. "Well, looks like it's you and me again," he told the wolf, "Let's hope they know what they're doing, because if I find one scratch on that car, they AND you are going to fix it up."


	13. Race Against Time

THIRTEEN

"You've got to be kidding?" Disher exclaimed over the phone, "Commissioner Brooks did it?"

"No, he didn't plan it, Randy, but it's because of his participation that Julie got caught in the middle of this," Adrian said into the phone Fraser was holding up to his temple as they zipped back toward Midway, "And he and the other co-conspirators are about to get blown up by the real mastermind of this whole affair."

"Blown up? Why?" Disher asked.

"Because they know too much; actually, they're not the prime targets of the explosion; Sharona is," Adrian explained, "She's been targeted for death from the very beginning. You can't let that transaction go on. See if you can talk the feds out of it."

"I can't, they won't listen to either me or the captain," Disher admitted, "It's like our punishment for knowing you."

"Where are you now?"

"At O'Hare's domestic United wing; Ford and Deeter ordered us to stay away from the drop site. I've still been doing some investigating, though, and check this out: they found two dead air traffic controllers in a closet."

"That makes perfect sense," Adrian nodded. Dead air traffic controllers fit perfectly into his theory. "Meet us at out front in ten minutes," he told Disher, "We've got all the evidence we need to convict the guilty parties with us."

"Right, see you there, Monk," Disher hung up. Fraser pulled the Riviera over to the curb where Vecchio and Diefenbaker were still waiting. "What took you guys so long?" their associate demanded, walking up to the passenger window, "I've been standing out here in this freezing wind for almost five and a half hours!"

"It took the judge a little longer than we'd hoped to serve the warrant, Ray," Fraser proclaimed, "He had some difficulty believing that all the people involved in this crime could be operating in the way we outlined to him. Once he realized we were right, though, he granted us full passage to the areas we requested, and as you can see, our search netted us a lot of evidence that should convict all involved, especially the mastermind."

He pointed to the large sack on the back seat filled to the top with evidence. "How much nails Zuko?" Vecchio asked, opening the driver's side door and letting Diefenbaker in.

"A reasonable amount, Ray," Fraser said, "Climb in; we need to stop the ransom drop from going through, and if we're not right on time, there'll be carnage."

"I hope there's not going to be a shootout," Adrian commented, "Then I'd have to clean up the crime scene. That includes separating the blood types, too."

"Separating the blood types?" Vecchio gave him an incredulous look.

"They'd be mixed together, that's not good," Adrian shrugged, "Of course, maybe I'll get lucky, and everyone who'd get shot would be O positive."

"Oh, what's the use?" Vecchio burrowed his way into the driver's seat, "Give me the keys, Fraser; I'm driving." .

"As you wish Ray," Fraser slipped to his right and gave Vecchio the wheel. Vecchio gunned out into traffic. "Uh, do you really need to go so fast?" Adrian asked, his face contorting with discomfort at their high speed.

"You want to stop your assistant from being blown up, we're going to have to rush," the Chicago cop told him, "If you hadn't taken so long with the evidence, we might have more time. So, now that we know everything, enlighten me; how was Dr. DiNardo connected to all this."

"Actually he wasn't really involved at all, you might say…you're in the wrong lane, get over, get over!" Adrian waved wildly. After Vecchio had done so, he went on, "Dr. DiNardo was the fall guy for the kidnappers. Our clever master kidnapper knew DiNardo would be a perfect fall guy, so he arranged for the good doctor would be set up. Zuko and his goons invaded DiNardo's office after the kidnapping and planted the evidence the federal agents found there to make it look like…watch out for that motorcycle!"

Vecchio slapped the steering wheel in frustration. "You want to drive!" he bellowed at the private investigator, "If not, do me a big favor and shut your trap, OK? I'm not really in the mood! Now you were saying about the case?"

"IT'S RED!" Adrian screamed at the top of his lungs as the Riviera blew through a red light, narrowly missing a Chevrolet. "Give me the wheel!" he yelled, seizing a portion of it.

"Get your hands off it!" Vecchio tried to pry his hands loose.

"Gentlemen, please, now is not a conducive time to be arguing," Fraser spoke up, noticing a tractor-trailer coming directly at them in the lane ahead of them. The Mountie told hold of the wheel himself and just managed to pull to the right in time. "Continuing Detective Monk's summary, Ray," he continued while his friend dueled with Adrian for control of the Riviera, "I broke down my visions of Dr. DiNardo driving in the parking garage, and one several different images, I remember that he clearly did not have his hands on the steering wheel. In addition, he looked like his was in an unconscious state. As I related earlier to Detective Monk, the explosion that occurred when his car hit the garbage truck was too big to be natural. They conspired to kill him off at an advantageous moment, and that happened to be it."

"Sounds great, Benny, now could you help get him away from the wheel!" Vecchio yelled, slapping at Adrian's hands.

"You're driving like this is Daytona!" Adrian protested, "There's no need to be this reckless…that's a stop sign!"

"There was a squeal of tires, as they spun into an intersection and did three consecutive 360s. No fewer than five cars missed collisions with them. The Riviera sideswiped a van and peeled off at well over ninety miles an hour. "Uh, gentlemen, we are presently going the wrong way down a one way street," Fraser said.

Both Adrian and Vecchio were too preoccupied with gaining control of the steering wheel to pay much attention…until a loud blaring of horns caught their attention. They looked out the windshield and screamed at the sight before them: a solid wall of traffic, four lanes across and about eight cars deep, was coming straight toward them. Frantically, Vecchio honked the horn and waved his hand out the window. The result was immediate: the wall of cars parted like the Red Sea, with vehicles crashing into parking meters, store fronts, and light posts. But the Riviera made it through safely. "I'll have to come back and clean this up later," Adrian said, glancing out the back window. He noticed Diefenbaker was lying on the floor, covering his eyes with his paws. "It's, it's okay there, buddy, the worst is over," he said, almost tempted to give the wolf a reassuring pat.

"Ray, this is not an entrance to the airport," Fraser spoke up again, noticing the gate they were about to break through. The Riviera ran over a spike strip, blowing out the tires. It sputtered to a stop on the middle of one of O'Hare's runways. "Damn!" Vecchio yelled, pumping the gas in disgust.

"See, when you drive without caution, accidents happen," Adrian pointed out.

"Shut up, just shut…!" Vecchio abruptly stopped as the sound of a shrill revving suddenly filled the air. The three of them turned around to see a 747 accelerating toward them for takeoff. They screamed again and jumped out of the car, Fraser dragging the bag of evidence with him. Vecchio grabbed the Riviera by the bumper and tried to drag it out of harm's way. "Ray, we have to get moving," Fraser told his friend, carrying him away.

"Not another car, please not another car!" Vecchio screamed out loud, groping for his latest Riviera, which was promptly run over by the jumbo jet. The Chicago cop sank to the runway and started bawling like a baby. "Why me, God, why me?" he moaned, caressing his latest car's shattered frame, "Just to have one mint condition '71 Riv stay intact! Is that too much to ask?"

"Captain," Adrian waved over to Stottlemeyer, who was running toward him across the runway. "What've you got Monk?" the captain asked him.

"Well, I've got a wrecked Riviera I've got to clean up," Adrian pointed to it.

"No, I mean, about Sharona!" Stottlemeyer shouted.

"We've got the evidence right here that proves it was…" Fraser started to say, but then he noticed Diefenbaker running across the runway, barking loudly. "I think he's got something," the Mountie said, and with that took off after his pet. Everyone else ran after him. "You were saying?" Stottlemeyer yelled toward the fleeting red serge uniform.

"Captain," Disher was running as fast as he could to keep up with everyone, "I stopped to go the bathroom, and look what I found." He held up a large briefcase, much like the one they'd seen the ransom money put into the other day. "The money?" Vecchio was surprised, "Why'd they leave it in the bathroom?"

"I don't know," Disher shrugged, "It was just lying behind a stall. I don't think anyone knew it was there."

"How could they not know, it had the tracking device in it?"

"Let me see that," Adrian stopped for a minute and laid the briefcase down on the ground. He opened it and tore open the false compartment to reveal the tracking device had been removed. "How?" Disher frowned, "It was in there when they left to bring the ransom to the airport."

"Just as I suspected," Adrian nodded, "And there's only one person that could have done it."

Diefenbaker was now barking louder than ever as he circled around a power shed on the far end of the runway. Fraser knocked on the door. "Anyone in there?" he called in.

"Who is it?" came a voice that was unmistakably Benjy's.

"Police, kid, we're going to get you out of there," Vecchio told him, "Stand back." The detective stepped back, kicked the steel door, and promptly recoiled backwards, clutching his foot in pain. "Allow me, Ray," Fraser said. The Mountie kicked the door in himself without any problems of his own. "Benjy, are you OK?" Stottlemeyer asked, charging into the shed.

"I think so, Captain Stottlemeyer," Benjy said. He looked a little thinner than he'd been when Adrian had last seen him, but otherwise looked unharmed. And in the corner of the shed was…

"Julie," the detective rushed to her, "How long have you been here?"  
"About two days," she said, looking terrified, "Is my mom all right; I heard them say they were going to kill her?"

"Oh, she's all right, Julie, apart from being in a coma and on life support and inches from death and…" Adrian said.

"Uh, Adrian, I don't think that's going to make her feel any better," Fraser told him before he could go any further. He leaned down next to the frightened girl. "Julie, I'm Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I've been working with Detective Monk…"

"Has he driven you to drink yet?" Julie asked him.

"No, I can't say he has," the Mountie said.

"He has for me," Vecchio commented, "All I need is a bar and I'll gladly get wasted right now."

"As I was saying, Julie, can you readily identify the people who abducted you?" Fraser asked her, "I can promise that we can placed you under protective custody until after this whole thing is over."

"Yeah, she can, and that's why she's not saying anything, or why you're not either, Dudley!" came a sour voice from behind them, accompanied by a cocking gun, "Don't any of you jerks move!"

"Commissioner Brooks, what a pleasant surprise," Stottlemeyer grumbled to his boss as he and everyone else in the shed raised their hands, "You know, there was time when I respected you, but attempting to kill one of your own officers has pretty much killed any chance of me keeping that respect!"

"Very nice eulogy, Captain," Brooks said, cocking his gun, "I'll have a good one for you too, once I get back to San Francisco with my share of the money."

"You're not going to get your share, Commissioner," Adrian told him, "The man who hired you plans to kill you and Frank Zuko tonight."

"Well for your information, Monk, I set the explosives with him, so the joke's solely on Zuko," Brooks snorted, "Nobody's going to know I took a fall once we off him. And on top of that, at least I get the chance to do you in, you lousy slug! I swore I'd get back at you for that filthy stunt you pulled with my hair, and now I'm going to do it. I'll even let you decide who dies first. You want to go first, or would you rather me shoot your associates before you?"

"Hmm, that's a tough one," Adrian frowned, "If you shot me, it would be quick and painless, yes, but then I wouldn't be able to…on the other hand, I'd have to clean up the mess and separate the blood types if you shot…I'll go first."

"If you say so, Monk," Commissioner Brooks took aim at him, but suddenly Diefenbaker jumped up his back, causing him to drop his gun. "Get off me, you filthy mutt!" he yelled, swiping at the wolf. Stottlemeyer leaped at his boss and knocked him down. "Commissioner, you're under arrest," he said roughly, locking one cuff around the commissioner's wrist and the other to a support pole, "You have the right to…why should I bother, you know the rights. Too bad you couldn't respect them for others," he nodded toward Julie.

"Burn in hell, Captain!" Brooks snarled at him.

"No, you're going to burn in hell!" Stottlemeyer bellowed, "For kidnapping and attempted murder! I've heard of people carrying grudges, but you've gone way too far in…!"

"I hate to interrupt your warm little roasting, captain, but it's less than five minutes to the drop," Vecchio said, holding up his watch, "It's clear on the other side of the airport if I read the note right. We'll have to hurry if we want to get over before the blast."

"And I know how," Fraser said, eyeing a nearby stairway truck used for formal arrivals. Adrian groaned, realizing what the Mountie meant. "Not again!" he groaned, "This night's turning into a thrill park lover's dream!"

"I know, Adrian, but it's the only way we'll save Sharona," Fraser told him. Adrian nodded. "Okay, then, let's get puffing," the detective said with forced enthusiasm, "Let's puff right along, like we're Thomas the Tank Engine or…excuse me, Detective Vecchio, your shoelace is untied."

"What?" Vecchio glanced down at his undone shoelace, "Well just leave it, it won't…"

"This'll just take a minute," Adrian bent down and retied the shoelace. Then untied and it and retied it again. Then untied both of Vecchio's shoelaces and tried working with both of them. "Monk, they don't have to be perfectly even!" Stottlemeyer groaned.

"To me they do," Adrian said, taking the laces off the shoes, "Maybe if I…"

"You know what, just take the damn shoes!" Vecchio snapped, slipping his feet out of them, "Fiddle with the laces when they're not on my feet! You know, I'm glad you've solved this case, because right now, I'd rather have a gay marriage to Ian McDonald for the rest of my life rather than spend five more minutes with you, you got that?"

"All except for whom Ian McDonald is," Adrian told him.

"I think we can get to that later; right now we've got to stop that ransom drop," Fraser said.

"You think you're really going to do that, chump?" came Commissioner Brooks's voice from inside the shed. He dug into his pocket with his free hand and pulled out a radio. "Zuko, Brooks!" he barked into it, "Monk and the Mountie are here. Shoot to kill!"

Stottlemeyer grabbed the radio out of the commissioner's hands just a few seconds too late. "It's too late for you, Captain!" Brooks derided him, "This whole airport is jammed with Zuko's men. They can find you wherever you go!"

"We'll see about that, Commissioner!" Stottlemeyer told him. He ran to the front of the cab. "Scoot over Randy, I'm driving," he told the lieutenant, "You coming Monk?"

Adrian, who'd been still working on Vecchio's shoelaces, rose up at the sound of the truck starting. "Coming," he said, running for the cab. Seeing it was packed near to capacity, he had little choice but to run to the back of the truck and climb up the stairs. "I've got to be crazy coming up here!" he muttered under his breath as Stottlemeyer stepped on the gas, causing the detective to grab on tight to the railing.

"Not used to a situation such as this, are you Detective?" came Fraser Senior's voice. The dead Mountie was leaning against the other railing. "Uh, no, not really," Adrian admitted, "What bring you here?"

"I wasn't going to miss the big reveal," Fraser Senior said, "Benton told me while you were in the bathroom in the judge's office for forty minutes that nobody does a reveal better than you. Plus I've got good news; your current assistant's going to pull through."

"Thank God," Adrian breathed a big sigh of relief. "Hey Julie, your mom's okay!" he called down toward the cab, although his voice was lost in the whipping wind.

"Who're you talking to, Mr. Monk?" Benjy had also been forced to take the stairs.

"Uh, no one, Benjy, or, maybe, no, you wouldn't understand," Adrian said quickly, "When did they bring Julie in with you?"

"About a day and a half ago," Benjy told him, "She told me everything you've done since we left. Did you really hang halfway out a police car to shoot a dump truck?"

"Basically yes," Adrian admitted, "One of my brighter moments, I guess. They didn't hurt you, did they?"

"Not really," Benjy said, "They gave me two meals every day. What's going on, Mr. Monk? Why did all this have to happen?"

Adrian lowered his head. He knew more than he really wanted to let on to the boy. "I'm…I'm not sure I can tell you," he admitted.

"Benjamin, I need your help up here," Fraser called down to him before Benjy could push the conversation any further.

"Sure," Benjy ascended to the top of the stairs, "What do you want, Mr. Mountie?"

"Call me Constable Fraser," he told the boy, "Keep a lookout on the port side; I need an advance notice if evildoers come at us from that side. Dief and I will handle the starboard side." He leaned over the side and called down, "Captain, could you raise the stairs up to their maximum height please? I need ideal observation conditions up here."

"No need, we're high enough as we are, Captain!" Adrian pleaded to no luck, as the stairs started rising up. He clutched the side of the railing and closed his eyes tight.

Until he heard a whistling sound from behind them. He opened them just in time to see the rocket-propelled grenade coming at him and to dive out of the way just as it exploded where he would have been crouching. "Speed it up!" he screamed to Stottlemeyer in the cab.

"Looks like we've got some real excitement, Detective Monk," Fraser Senior commented. The dead man pulled out a telescope similar to his son's and glanced back at their pursuers. "Hmm, eleven of them, heavily armed, on three vehicles like this one," he said, "I think we're in for a serious fight, Detective."

"I can tell," Adrian said.

"Tell what, Mr. Monk?" Benjy called down, slouching down to avoid the machine gun bullets whizzing over his head.

"That these guys won't give up without a serious fight," Adrian said. He glanced at Trudy's watch for a minute before realizing it was still broken. "It's about three more minutes, give or take about ten seconds," Fraser Senior told him.

"Three more minutes," Adrian said to himself, "We've got to shake them, Mr. Fraser, or Sharona's as good as dead."


	14. The O'Hare Clone Wars

FOURTEEN

"All units, get in position," Ford told his fellow agents over the radio from his station just outside the tarmac at the international gates, "We are going in three minutes. Shoot down the first guy that touches the money."

"Uh, sir, we've got a bit of a situation here at Concourse 2," one of them told him.

"Oh great," Ford growled, "What?"

"There seems to be a firefight of sorts going on between several airport vehicles," the agent said, "I think Detective Monk and the Mountie are on one of them. They appeared to be heading toward your way, sir."

"Monk? What the hell's he still doing here?" Ford bellowed.

"I have no idea, sir."

"Oh all right, just see if you can stop them and the shooters from getting over here; I want no interference in this transaction," Ford told him. He tossed the radio into the wall in frustration.

"Is something—ACHOO!--wrong?" a concerned (and still somewhat sick) Trevor had been brought up by Deeter and Welsh, with another briefcase they apparently thought contained the ransom money.

"Oh nothing, everything, everything's fine," Ford lied, "You might as well put the money out there, Fleming, it's zero hour."

"Right," Trevor took several deep breaths and walked out onto the tarmac with the briefcase. "Gentlemen," Welsh told the federal agents, "Let me just remind you that firing away indiscriminately at the kidnappers may be dangerous, so try not to do it."

"Lieutenant, for the last time let me reassure you, we know what we're doing," Deeter told him, "Everything's under control."

* * *

"We're totally losing control here!" Adrian shrieked, clinging on tight to the stairway railing as if his life depended on it—which in some way it did. Their attackers were quickly gaining ground on them, and had a ton of weapons at their disposal to use: machine guns, bazookas, grenades, and a lot more. Stottlemeyer had started zigzagging his truck back and forth in an effort to throw off the attackers' aim, and while this had been successful so far, the detective was feeling quite nauseated. And all of his vomit bags were stuck in the cargo hold of the plane back at Midway. "Is it really necessary to do this?" he cried out to his boss in the cab. Stottlemeyer either didn't hear him or ignored him.

Up on top of the stairs, Fraser was a decided different story. The Mountie stood tall, apparently oblivious to the shot being fired at him, scanning the distance with his telescope for signs of the drop site. "Captain, turn left here," he called down, this time getting a reaction from Stottlemeyer. "Have you done this before, Constable Fraser?" an awed Benjy asked him.

"In what sense? That I've stood atop a moving airline stairway during a shootout with deviants?" Fraser responded, "No, I can't say I have, although I have done similar unusual things during hostage rescues. For instance, there was this one time where a defense contractor's daughter had been taken prisoner by a disgruntled ex-employee, and in the course of rescuing her I happened…."

He was cut off as a mortar shot from a mobster on the terminal roof zipped dangerously close to his head. "May I suggest perhaps stepping down to a less conspicuous area, son?" his late father advised him, "I realize the need for reconnaissance at this juncture, but in your current location you're placing yourself in serious risk of injury or worse."

"I'll be all right, Dad," Fraser said, "As long as I have my Stetson on, I'll…"

"Huh?" Benjy gave him a quizzical look.

"Um, I was talking to someone else, Benjamin," Fraser said quickly, shooting his father a "Please don't make me look insane to the kid, Dad" glance.

Down below, the mobster trucks had gained enough ground that they were within firing range of the cab. Gunmen on the two flanking trucks opened fire on it, shattering both windows and the windshield. Everyone inside ducked down as bullets whizzed over their heads. "Can't you give it any more?" Vecchio shouted at Stottlemeyer.

"I'm giving her all I can!" Stottlemeyer yelled back. Vecchio cocked his gun and fired at the starboard truck. "Eat this, slugs!" he shouted at them. On the port side, Disher leaned over Stottlemeyer to fire at the mobster threatening them there. "Randy, you're squashing me here!" his boss protested. His face was now being pressed into the steering wheel, blowing the horn in the process.

"Just a minute, sir, I'll have them off our backs in no time," Disher emptied his entire clip at the offending truck, to no apparent effect. "OK, maybe a little more than no time," he conceded.

"Ha ha, gotcha sucker!" Vecchio shouted in delight. His latest shot had blown out the tires of the truck on his side, which now drifted crazily to the right and crashed into the side of the terminal. "One down, two to go," he said, slapping hands with Disher, who was reloading for another crack at his target. He leaned out the window and called up to his colleague, "See anything yet, Fraser?"

"Not yet, Ray, I'll let you know if I do," Fraser called down. He ducked low as they drove under a pedestrian bridge…

And noticed just a bit too late the four mobsters jumping off it. One missed his mark and hit the pavement hard, but the remaining three were on him with knives. He fought back against them as best he could. "Uh, Adrian, could I have a little help up here?" he called down to the detective.

Adrian glanced up at the Mountie's predicament. Ever so slowly, he forced his way up the stairs. Before he could get there, however, Fraser had punched out two of his adversaries. Adrian jumped as one of them rolled down the stairs and off the back of the stairway, where the trailing mobster truck had to swerve wide to avoid running him over. The second mobster rose to his feet and blocked Adrian's path. "Going somewhere?" he asked darkly, thrusting the snake he had on his shoulders at the detective, "Say hello to MY little friend!"

'Uh, no thanks, I'll send him an e-mail!" Adrian gulped nervously, backing down the stairs away from the snake.

"Detective Monk, that is a non-poisonous species," Fraser Senior pointed out, "It's not even a constrictor."

"That's easy for you to say; he can't bite you to death…again!" Adrian yelled at him.

"Who're you talking to?" the mobster asked.

"Nobody," Adrian said. Laughing cruelly, the mobster tossed the snake at the detective's feet. Screeching like a child, Adrian dove partially over the stair railing. "Kill it!" he screamed to everyone who could here, "Somebody kill it, Kill, kill it!"

"How about if I kill you instead?" the mobster whacked Adrian right hand with a tire iron, leaving him dangling dangerously about ten feet in the air. Before he could strike his other hand and knock him off, though, Fraser landed a haymaker on his final adversary, who tumbled down the stairs and bowled over his comrade. The tire iron flew out of his hand and fell on the runway. The Mountie was down the stairs in a flash. "Give me your hand, Adrian," he said, extending his.

"Out here's fine," Adrian tried to rationalize the situation at hand for himself.

"You sure?"

'The snake, all right? I can't go up there with the snake!"

There was a strangled hissing coupled with growls from Diefenbaker. "Oh, I think Dief's got the situation with the serpent well in hand ," Fraser said. Adrian peeked over the railing to see the wolf biting hard on the thrashing snake's throat. It squirmed and hissed wildly in an attempt to escape, but Diefenbaker refused to let go, and it was only a matter of seconds before the snake died with a low rattle. "Dump the corpse, Dief," Fraser informed his pet, "It's the only way Detective Monk can effectively assist us."

Diefenbaker dumped the snake's body over the other side of the stairs. Adrian climbed back up onto the stairs. "They were prepared for me," he commented, "They know I hate snakes. That's why he brought it. I know Zuko's accomplice told them that. The only question is, why are there so many of them here at the airport?"

"My guess is Zuko has realized he was going to be double-crossed this evening," Fraser realized, "Thus he seems to have brought his whole army to make sure he gets his cut of the…here they come again."

The two remaining mobsters had picked themselves back up and were running up the stairs, brandishing their knives. Fraser kicked the one on the left in the face, sending him back down the stairs and off onto the runway. The one on the right tackled Adrian before he could repeat the Mountie's move and raised the knife high. Adrian grabbed his wrist in mid-descent and strained with all his energy to keep the blade up in the air. "When was the last time you brushed your teeth?" he complained, noticing his foe's less than ideal dental work.

"Excuse me," Fraser tapped the mobster on the shoulder and slugged him hard when he turned around, knocking him out. The Mountie walked down the stairs and gently dropped him on the runway. The trailing mobster truck had to swerve out of the way again, and this time went too far and tipped over, spilling its passengers out. "Shame they weren't wearing their seatbelts," Fraser Senior commented at the scene, "Now by not wearing them, they're probably seriously injured."

"Are you all right, Adrian?" Fraser asked him, helping him to his feet.

"Fine, fine, but I think I'll need another five hour shower after this one," Adrian groaned, digging out his last wipe and cleaning off his suit.

"I'd get back up and keep looking again, son; that blast is going off in less than a minute now," Fraser Senior said, glancing at his watch.

"Right; Adrian, stay here in the middle of the stairs; I'm going to need you for something in a minute," Fraser said. He raced back up to the top of the stairs and glanced across the dusky runways. "That was incredible what you did, Constable Fraser," Benjy lauded him, "I ought to write about that some day."

"Maybe you will, Benjamin, maybe you will," Fraser said. He glanced to the left and abruptly exclaimed, "Aha." He leaned over the side again. "Captain Stottlemeyer, subject is five-eighths of a kilometer away at eleven o'clock," he called down.

"What?" Stottlemeyer stuck his head out the driver's window.

"I see Mrs. Fleming coming out just now," Fraser pointed in the to the northwest toward the international gates, "We're almost out of time."

"You're down to thirty-two seconds right about now," his father cut in, holding the watch in his face. Fraser paid no attention. "Drive just to the left of her as fast as you can," he instructed, "I've got an idea on how to get her out of there before the blast."

"Gotcha," Stottlemeyer floored it. "OK, now we're definitely going too fast!" Adrian groaned, gripping the starboard railing.

Fraser ran down to him. "Hold me out, Adrian," he told the detective, "I'll grab her as we go by."

"That's incredibly dangerous," Adrian protested, "What if I drop you? I'm not that strong, you know."

"You won't drop me, I know in my heart," Fraser told him, "I know that when the lives of people close to you matter, you'll find whatever strength you need."

Adrian looked the Mountie in the face. Then he glanced up at Benjy, who was giving him the most hopeful and pleading glance he'd ever seen. Then up the tarmac at the rapidly approaching drop zone. "Twenty seconds, Detective Monk," Fraser Senior said, showing him the watch. A wave of new determination swept Adrian. "Let's do it," he said,doing some overblown muscle flexing. He took hold of the seat of Fraser's pants and steadied him as the Mountie extended his body off the side of the stairway. "I've got to be crazy," he told himself quietly, "Touching another man's rear end."

"A little bit further, Adrian!" Fraser shouted over the roar of the truck's engine and the continuing gunfire from the lone trailing mobster truck, "I'm going to have to reach all the way for this!"

"Then I'll fall!" Adrian started to protest, "I can't lean over any farther!"

"Twelve, eleven, ten, nine,…" Fraser Senior was still counting down. Adrian looked over the side and saw a figure getting bigger and bigger. She would be out of range if he didn't do what he didn't want to do. Summoning all his strength, he pushed Fraser as far out as he could. With the count at five seconds, Fraser reached out with his arm and grabbed Sharona around the waist. "Hang on Mrs. Fleming, and brace yourself!" he told her. She apparently hadn't realized what had just happened, for she simply hung still, expressionless.

Inside the terminal, the federal agents barreled out as the truck whisked their hostage away. "What the hell are they doing?" an outraged Deeter demanded out loud.

"Fraser you Canadian parasite, get back here with…!" Ford began to run after the truck, but it was then that the entire tarmac exploded in a massive fireball. Ford dove back to safety just in time. "What happened?" a heavily concerned Trevor charged out of the building where he'd been waiting for his wife's release, "Where's Sharona?"

"The Mountie took her," Ford explained. He grabbed Deeter's radio out of his partner's hands. "Attention all units, hostage in transit, being held by Constable Fraser in blue airport truck!" he barked into it, "Get all aerial units up and running; I want them found and detained immediately!"

"You do realize of course that Constable Fraser and Detective Monk did just save Mrs. Fleming's life right now?" Welsh posed as they ran back into the terminal, "And probably yours as well?"

"Yeah right, Lieutenant," Deeter chided him, "Doesn't it seem just a little suspicious to you they resort to something like this? Ten bucks says they were in on it all the time."

"You're on," Welsh told him. He could smell a quick ten dollars coming his way.

Back on the truck, Adrian struggled with all his might to pull Fraser and Sharona back onto the stairs. Their combined weight, however, was proving a bit problematic for him. "Hey Constable, could you suck in your breath a bit?" he asked, I'm losing my grip here, and I think my back's about to go!"

He felt a clamping on his coat. "Oh no, no, not that, please not you, not here!" he begged Diefenbaker. The wolf had grabbed hold of his tuxedo and was yanking it backwards. Adrian couldn't even bare to think of the consequences for his wardrobe this would cause, but Diefenbaker's tugging was slowly bringing his master and Sharona to safety. Sighing, he relented to working in conjunction with the wolf, and after another minute of pulling yanked Fraser and Sharona to safety. The three of them tumbled into a heap on the stairs—a heap that quickly increased to four as Benjy threw himself into his mother's arms. "Are you all right, Mom?" he asked, breathlessly.

"Oh baby, oh baby!" Sharona hugged him tight. In contrast to her son, she looked like she'd gone through hell and then some: her clothes were torn, and she'd been struck in several places. Her gaze turned up toward her former employer. "Adrian," she breathed.

"Sharona," he smiled, ever so happy to see her again.

"What the hell took you so long?" she snapped as she climbed to her feet, "You should have figured this out days ago!"

"Yep, same old Sharona," Adrian told Fraser with a smile, "She hasn't changed a bit."

"Allow me to introduce myself, Mrs. Fleming, I'm Constable Benton Fraser, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," Fraser tipped his Stetson to her, "I've been working with your former employer Detective Monk in recovering you from your captivity, and we have now figured out the solution to your abduction and holding."

"Well please, enlighten me," Sharona said, "because I'm going to personally kill the guy who's put me through almost ninety hours of being locked in cold closets with no food or water and an elephant pacing around outside—and don't you say a word!" she pointed an accusing finger at Adrian.

"I wasn't going to," Adrian raised his arms in protest—then promptly grabbed onto the railing again as the truck hit a pothole.

"Have you got her, Monk?" Stottlemeyer yelled up, "Is she OK?"

"Mission accomplished, Captain!" Adrian flashed him a thumbs-up with his free hand.

"And here come the feds now," Disher pointed to the squad of police cars driving toward them, sirens blazing, "All we need to do is tell them…"

It was then that gunfire erupted from the cop cars at them. "Hey, what're you shooting at us for?" Vecchio demanded, waving his arms wildly in protest, "We've on your side, you morons!"

"It's dark out, do you think they can tell it's us?" Stottlemeyer yelled, shoving Julie to the floor so she'd be out of harm's way.

"And they're not the least of our problems; here come the rest of Zuko's legions," Vecchio pointed out the window. A small armada of vehicles was now on their tail. "Hey Fraser, heads up; we got a load of company back there!" he shouted up to the Mountie.

There was a loud rush as a bazooka blast demolished the top of the stairs, sending everyone diving to the floor. "Thank you, Ray," Fraser thanked him for the belated heads up. An increased firefight was now underway, with federal agents and mobsters firing indiscriminately at each other, apparently not sure who were on whose side. Stottlemeyer swerved to try and avoid the melee. "Don't, please!" he told Disher, who was poised to fire away at the cars shooting at them, "The last thing we want is to draw their fire with a cause!"

It was at that moment that a missile slammed into the ground inches to their left, causing the truck to jump several feet in the air. Adrian screamed in terror as they landed hard, almost tipping over. "We're trying to escape here!" he cried up at the four FBI helicopters circling overhead. The helicopters abruptly zoomed out of the way as a jumbo jet abruptly descended out of the sky, just missing landing on the truck. "This just keeps getting better and better!" the detective groaned as they swerved wildly to the left to avoid getting run over.

"I see you haven't changed much either," Sharona grumbled.

"Thank you," Adrian nodded.

There was a crash as the remaining hijacked airport truck pulled up alongside. Two mobsters jumped onto the back of the cops' truck. "Give us the money, Constable!" one threatened Fraser, waving a gun at him.

"I can't do that," Fraser told him, "I'm honor bound by the law not to return illicit money to criminal factions."

"You tell him, son," his father told him with pride in his voice.

"Then it's your funeral," the mobster pointed the gun at him…

And was hit on the hit with the briefcase. "You want it?" Sharona shouted, pummeling him with it, "I'll give it to you!" She whacked him clean off the stairs with it. "I see you've still got the fighting spirit," Adrian told her.

"If you'd been locked up for four days, you'd be ticked off too, Adrian," she said. She swung the briefcase at the other mobster and knocked his gun out of his hands.

"More ticked off than I made you?" Adrian had to know.

"I wouldn't go that far," she said while kicking the mobster in his private parts. He shrieked loud enough to shatter every pane of glass around O'Hare. Fraser gently pushed him over the side. "Thank you kindly, Sharona," the Mountie said, shaking her hand.

More machine gun fire came from a low-flying plane overhead. The helicopters started shooting at it. "I must say, this battle is getting genuinely out of control," Fraser commented, staring up at the overhead battle and the intense firefight between mob and federal vehicles in their wake.

"It's almost like the Clone Wars," Benjy added.

"And I've pretty much had enough of it; Captain, do you think we could pull over now?" Adrian asked his boss.

"If I can get away from this madness, Monk, I will," Stottlemeyer called back.

"Baggage train, three o'clock, Stott!" Vecchio yelled, "They're trying the al-Qaida approach now!"

Stottlemeyer glanced around just in time to see the baggage train—with a large bomb attached to the front bumper—speeding at them. He sped up at the last minute so that the train missed them and hit the mobsters' stairway truck instead, blowing it up violently. "That was close," he breathed.

"I think Detective Monk's got a point," Julie commented from the floor, "We can stop now."

"Okay, might as well," Stottlemeyer pressed the brake…and got nothing. "Damn it, no!" he begged, pumping it again and again. "Is something wrong sir?" a concerned Disher asked.

"That blast we took from the chopper must have cut the brake line," Stottlemeyer realized. He saw that a large tanker truck loaded with aviation fuel was directly ahead of them, and there was no way they could stop. "Monk, Constable, abandon ship!" he yelled up, sweeping Julie up in his arms as he dove out of the cab. Vecchio and Disher quickly followed suit.

"What was that, Captain, the man's a lisp?" Adrian called down, "I don't get it."

"It looks like you will get it if you don't get off," Fraser Senior pointed to the gas truck ahead of them. Adrian's eyes went wide. "As if it couldn't get worse!" he groaned.

"Dief, go, Sharona, go!" Fraser ordered them. Sharona scooped her son up and jumped off the back of the truck, followed by a leaping Diefenbaker. Fraser took Adrian's arm. "Let's go, Adrian," he said.

"You go through this a lot, don't you?" Adrian asked, "All this exciting shoot 'em up stuff with narrow escapes."

"Since I've come to Chicago, yes," Fraser admitted, "There was this one time Ray and I were locked in a freezer, and we survived by…"

"Better go now unless you want to join me, son." Fraser Senior told him.

"Right," his son said, "Ready Adrian?"

"Ready as I'll ever be," Adrian's eyes were tightly shut.

"Jump!" the two of them leapt off the stairs and rolled down the tarmac a mere six seconds before the stairway truck hit the gas truck. The massive explosion that followed sent flames leaping at least a mile into the air. Adrian rubbed his side. There was a slight pain from landing hard on the concrete, but otherwise he was okay. As was everyone else from what he could see. "Remind me never to do this again," he said out loud.

"I take it you don't like thrills when solving cases very much?" Fraser asked him.

"No, I like my nice smooth summations with the cops around to make sure things don't get out of hand," Adrian admitted.

"Well it looks like that moment is at hand," Fraser pointed back up the tarmac, where wailing sirens announced the arrival of the FBI. They poured out of their cars, guns raised. "Freeze, all of you!" Ford yelled at the top of his lungs at the people before him, "You're all under arrest for interfering with a federal operation! And you, Detective Monk, you're also under arrest for…!"

"You can stop with any charges against Detective Monk right now, Agent Ford," Stottlemeyer spoke up, "Unless you and Agent Deeter want to lose your jobs and get arrested yourselves!"

"What are you talking about?" Deeter demanded.

"Apparently you guys didn't realize Lieutenant Welsh has closed circuit cameras in his office," Stottlemeyer pulled a videocassette out of his coat pocket, "I knew you two had done something unethical with Detective Monk when the two of you were alone with him, so I pulled the tape once you two left. Even among the FBI, beating up a fellow law enforcement official without cause is a felony, so unless you want me to send this back to Washington and land you both in hot water, you'll just shut up and listen to exactly what we have to say."

"That's blackmail, Captain!" Ford yelled at him.

"And it's absolutely right," Welsh crossed over toward Stottlemeyer. "Detective Monk," the lieutenant told the detective, "Why don't you show these clowns how a real detective solves crimes?"

There was a loud clamor at the back of the crowd. "Is everyone all right?" Trevor asked out loud, sneezing all the way, "What happened here?"

"That's a very good question, Trevor," Adrian walked forward, being sure to still stay a reasonable enough distance away from him, "And perhaps you'd like to answer it for all of us."


	15. Adrian Monk, Superhero

FIFTEEN

"What, what are you talking about, Detective?" Trevor asked uneasily.

"I'm talking about a lot of things, Trevor," Adrian said, "I'm talking about the more common motives for a case like this: adultery, sex, lies, and murder…well, attempted murder. Most of all, I'm talking about Amanda Graystone."

"Amanda who?"

"I think you know very well who," Adrian said with uncharacteristic resolve in his voice, "Here's what happened: you met Amanda at the club she worked at back in New Jersey—I'm guessing that's not where you told Sharona you were going—and you fell madly in love with her. And she fell for you as well. Of course, you didn't bother to tell her you were married. I haven't found out yet how she found out, but somehow she did, and when that happened, she broke it off and fled here to Chicago. But you weren't ready to let go that easily. When you received word that your grandmother was about to die, you realized that was the perfect cover to get Amanda back. So you flew the whole family here to Chicago under the pretext of visiting her, which you did to an extent to make it look legitimate."

"Well I'm afraid you're wrong, Detective Monk, this is all news to me," Trevor said in a voice that sounded a little higher than usual.

"Is it really?" Fraser spoke up. The Mountie reached into the bag of evidence and pulled out several pieces of paper. "We were able to obtain phone company records," he announced, "It says you made several calls to Amanda's residence, and that none of the calls last more than eight seconds. She wanted to let go, but you didn't."

"So eventually you confronted her and promised you'd leave Sharona for her," Adrian continued, "But you didn't want to go through another divorce, because you wanted to keep custody of Benjy, and no court would allow that given your past record. And you couldn't kill Sharona, because if she turned up murdered, you'd automatically be the prime suspect. So you concocted a plan wherein she'd disappear for a little while. You shopped around to all the crime bosses in the Chicago area…"

"We have more phone records indicating no fewer than six criminal syndicates received calls over a three day span from your address," Fraser held up more papers, "Eventually you decided Frank Zuko was the best choice for the job, and you made a deal with him wherein he'd take Sharona into custody for you, in return for a sizeable sum of money."

"Uh, Constable, I usually do the thing, I think I pointed it out earlier," Adrian told him.

"Oh yes, my mistake," Fraser nodded, "How about you signal me when you need the evidence to prove your summation?"

"That's fine, that's fine," Adrian said. Turning back to Trevor, he went on, "You and Zuko worked out an agreement that would take the heat off you: you'd arrange for a ransom to be paid for Sharona, which you told him you'd give him as your payment for taking Sharona off your hands. Of course, you really had no intention of giving him all that money, but I'll get to that later. The rest was easy. At lunch the day of the kidnapping you proposed to Sharona that you all go to the movies later that evening. After she agreed to the idea, all you had to do was call Zuko up and tell him you were set. And all he had to do was station a few goons just around from the theater. It was only three blocks from your house, so you could walk straight there. And they'd be waiting."

"This is absurd!" Trevor protested to anyone within earshot, "The man's gone crazy! That explosion yesterday took away his common sense! I've never even heard of anyone named Frank Zuko!"

"Get your hands off me, you idiot!" came an irate voice from the back of the pack. An FBI agent was leading an angry Frank Zuko and his bodyguards toward the group. The mob leader shot a definitely ugly glance in Trevor's direction at the sight of him. "He was in his car in the parking garage, barking orders over a radio," the FBI agent explained.

"Well, well, glad you could join us, Frankie," Vecchio beamed, "You know, we were just talking about you."

"You can forget whatever was said, Ray, because you haven't got anything on me for anything!" Zuko snarled.

"Oh contraire, Frankie, we've got a load of stuff implicating you in this kidnapping," Vecchio retorted, "Fraser, would you please show our lovely contestant the first item up for bids tonight?"

"I'd be glad to, Ray," Fraser reached into the evidence bag and pulled out several large photographs. "These were taken onboard Delta Flight 893, which you told us you'd taken to Florida before the abduction occurred, Mr. Zuko," the Mountie told him.

"I DID get on it!" Zuko shouted, "Look Constable, you saw the evidence, I was in Orlando when…!"

"That was a very convincing plan you came up with, Frank," Adrian interrupted, "It was so complex, yet so simple. Trevor actually helped you out with that when you met him in person for the first time. He noticed that you bore a striking resemblance to an old friend of his, Bob Anderson."

"Who's Bob Anderson?" Sharona asked her former boss, "I don't know anyone by that name."

"I doubt he would have told you, Sharona," Adrian said, "Bob Anderson was the owner of the convenient store that Trevor's been buying lottery tickets from for the last nine years. Incidentally, apart from your income at the clinic, you're now flat broke thanks to the New Jersey Lottery."

"What, now you're accusing me of still gambling recklessly?" Trevor exclaimed, "Look Detective, you saw those tickets with your own eyes; they were ten years old!"

"What the naked eye can see is only half the story, Trevor," Adrian said, "We've looked through the rest of the stack; about three quarters of your tickets were printed this year. You just put the old ones on top to throw off a causal observer."

"We obtained one of them," Fraser pulled one pack of tickets and tossed it to Sharona, "You can clearly see the copyright year in the lower left corner."

Sharona looked over the tickets silently. "As I was saying, Trevor and Bob go way back," Adrian continued, "He called his old friend in New Jersey and told him some big fake story about how he needed his help desperately in Chicago. Bob flew out on the first flight he could, and was promptly met at the gate by Zuko's thugs, who told him to do what they said, or else."

"That's when Zuko's plan went into action," Fraser chimed in. He passed the pictures to Stottlemeyer. "Let everyone see these, please," he instructed him.

"Lieutenant Disher informed me they just found the bodies of a pair of air traffic controllers on the premises," Adrian said, "It was very simple. Zuko's men offed them, and two of them took their places. They placed the baggage train underneath the plane and sawed through the bathroom floor. You can see the cut marks on the floor. They held Bob Anderson, who'd been made to dress exactly like Zuko, inside one of the baggage cars. Inside the plane, Frank boarded and sat down, then went the bathroom. He then slipped out the hole in the floor and into the baggage train, and Bob Anderson climbed up into his place. The mobsters then cemented the hole shut. Once Bob was safely inside, Zuko was transported to the nearest flight to New Jersey and got onboard posing as Bob. He even had the identification to further prove it."

"You can't prove any of this!" Zuko protested.

"You made one fatal mistake, Mr. Zuko," Fraser told him, "You said you'd spent most of your vacation in Florida inside your hotel room nursing a stomach ache, which would signify that you would not have a significant tan, and yet you do have a significant one, most likely by a tanning parlor in New Jersey. Your alibi therefore falls flat upon closer inspection."

Zuko glared harshly at him. "Your goons later joined you in New Jersey," Adrian told him, "And together you set about framing Dr. DiNardo. You injected his patients with poisons and burned files. We called the FBI in New Jersey, and they've found that the only alien fingerprints in the clinic are yours and your men's. Back here, Trevor did his part in the deception as well; he forged the note we found in Benjy's pillow and practiced writing Sharona's name until her got her handwriting just about right."

"That's why we found the notebook with her name all over it," Disher realized.

"What about the commissioner's involvement?" Stottlemeyer asked, "At what point did Zuko blackmail him into it?"

"The kidnapping was going to be a low key affair," Adrian explained, "They'd take Sharona in, hold her for a few days, then kill her. They'd then release Benjy back to Trevor, who'd tell him his mother died in an accident during the release, and then he'd fly off to South America with his son and his new wife Amanda. They weren't even going to ask for a significant ransom at first, only about a thousand dollars. They didn't want to attract too much police attention. But things didn't go quite as Trevor and Zuko had planned. You didn't expect Constable Fraser to show up just after the mob took Sharona and Benjy, did you Trevor? You were hoping to wait a while before calling the police and telling them your wife had been kidnapped."

"I swear, I have no—ACHOO!--idea what you're talking about!" Trevor was starting to look very, very nervous.

"When you learned I was being called in to help solve the case, you panicked," Adrian dared to take a few steps closer to the sick man, but in the end decided against it and backed off again, "Sharona's no doubt told you of some of the cases we've solved together, and you realized I would stop at nothing to find out what had happened to her and see her back safely. Although you had a reasonable enough false lead with Dr. DiNardo, you wanted more insurance I wouldn't get too close. You got that chance when you overheard Constable Fraser and Natalie mention Julie at the crime scene. Later that day when we'd gone off investigating, you called up Zuko and informed him of the idea that had formed in your head. Zuko had just gotten back from New Jersey and switched back over with Bob Anderson, whom his men proceeded to kill after the switch was made and everything that would indicate Frank Zuko was in Florida given to him in case he was interrogated. Zuko's record with Commissioner Brooks proved invaluable, and you had a part to play in it as well, didn't you Trevor? After calling Lieutenant Welsh and asking him how the investigation was proceeding…"

"It was at four thirty that afternoon," Welsh spoke up, "Just after you all had left for the lake and the dropped car."

"Which reminds me, how did they get Amanda's car?" Stottlemeyer asked.

"Amanda loaned it to Trevor, Captain," Fraser said, "He told her he needed it because his was broken. Trevor then gave the keys to Zuko. More on that in a moment. Continue, Detective Monk."

"Anyway, Trevor disguised himself as an old man and followed us to the lakefront," Adrian explained, "He was working in conjunction with one of Zuko's men. At the right moment, he approached Natalie about the time, and the mobster disguised as the jogger ran into her, spilling her purse's contents all over the ground. While picking up her belongings, Trevor pocketed her social security card when no one was watching. Afterwards, he gave it to the mobster, who in turn gave it to Zuko, who in turn faxed it to the Commissioner, who hired the thugs in the Bay Area to kidnap Julie. He then filmed the tape and mailed it here to us, being sure to use our own voice-modifying equipment to throw us off that it was actually him. Which reminded me, Trevor, when the tape arrived, your exactly words were, 'I have no idea why they sent this to YOU.' How could you have known it was for us? If I were you, I would have assumed it was for me."

"This was hanging in the Flemings' closet," Fraser pulled an old gray coat out of the evidence bag. "That's definitely what the old guy wore," Disher pointed at it, "I saw it the day we went there; I don't know why I didn't recognize it."

"Which brings us back to Amanda," Adrian looked Trevor accusingly in the eye, "You certainly didn't tell her you were going to send your wife up the river. She assumed you were just going to divorce her. But Constable Fraser's told me that the story of her abduction was all over the news that night due to his being close to the scene. She knew exactly what had happened, and she called you in a rage. She threatened to tell the police about your affair with her, and you couldn't risk being exposed when you needed to portray yourself as a good guy. Even though you tried to use Commissioner Brooks's involvement to dissuade her from going to the cops, she was still going to tell. So you had no choice but to kill off the woman you'd thrown Sharona off for. And that's just what you did: you broke into the nearest gun store you could find, got yourself a gun, tracked Amanda to her club, and shot her like a dying pet."

"You shouldn't have just left the rifle in your wardrobe, Trevor," Fraser next pulled out a hunting rifle, "It matches perfectly the shell casings left behind on the roof, and a gun that was reported stolen from a store in the Lincoln Park area several hours before Amanda was killed."

"You then went to her apartment, using a key you'd swiped off her chain, and removed anything that connected you to her. By the time you got back home, you were consumed with the pain of having killed Amanda," Adrian told Trevor, "And in your anger and suffering, you blamed Sharona for it. Your thinking was that she'd been in the way of your ideal relationship with Amanda. Thereafter, Sharona couldn't just die; she had to suffer and die spectacularly. When Zuko next called, you gave him the green light to do things to her I can't describe here and now in front of the kids."

"This is just plain ridiculous!" Trevor shouted, "Would anyone in their right mind really accuse me of that! First thing I'm doing once I'm out of here is getting a lawyer; I've got a load of complaints right now!"

"Actually this makes some sense," Sharona spoke up, "I was fine for the first day or so, then those goons started beating me and brought the elephant in. Go on, Adrian, I want to hear the whole story."

"You and Zuko decided to bump up the ransom to half a billion," Adrian went on, "Any attempt to make it look like it was someone more substantial than the two of you behind this whole affair. It was also about this time you decided you didn't want to give that much money to Zuko, not with yourself in such heavy debt. So you got Commissioner Brooks's phone number off Zuko, and together with the commissioner you conspired to swindle Zuko out of the money and get rid of him. The commissioner was all too eager to comply; anything to get the blackmailing Zuko out of his hair. To that end he robbed our evidence warehouse and sent all the explosives east. You gave some of it to Zuko to use on us. Then you and the commissioner wired the airport and loaded the service tunnel under the tarmac with explosives. You'd planned for Zuko and his men to wait in hiding, and then come out and attack the FBI once Sharona was released. Once they did, you'd blow them—and Zuko's mobsters who in theory be waiting in hiding to take them on--up, take the money, get Benjy, and climb on a plane to South America."

"Well the money got blown up with the explosion," Welsh pointed out.

"Not really," Fraser said, "We can thank Agents Ford and Deeter for that. They showed Trevor their printing press where they printed up the phony bills. When they weren't around, he printed up several hundred fake bills and got a suitcase identical to the one. He planted it in the bathroom the night before the drop. All he had to do is switch them and place the tracker in the fake briefcase. No one would know the difference."

"You know what Detective, I think you're jealous!" Trevor snapped, "You're angry Sharona left you for me, and you're trying to get back at me! Constable, you were there when Dr. DiNardo hit me and took the money!" Show him he's wrong!"

"I'm afraid that was you and Zuko again, Trevor," Fraser shook his head, "Ford and Deeter showed you the camera angles they'd be using beforehand, and you took good stock of it."

"You waited until they were ready to give up," Adrian said, "Then you took the money down the escalators. You knew it was a blind spot. Then you struck yourself with one of the beams outside the door and lay on the floor, pretending you'd been attacked. In the parking lot, one of Zuko's men had attached a remote control to the car he'd stuffed a drunken DiNardo in. All he had to do was maneuver it away when the feds were watching and crash it somewhere. The garbage truck I was driving just happened to be the first convenient option for him."

"Spectacular theory, Detective, but that doesn't prove anything that you've said," Trevor barked, "You can't prove I had any affair outside of marriage or bought explosives!"

"You're right, I can't," Adrian said, "But Constable Fraser can. Can't you?"

"Of course," Fraser nodded. He bent down to Diefenbaker. "Dief, you know what a remote detonator smells like," he told the wolf, "That explosion back on the tarmac was caused by one. See if you can find the detonator for us."

Diefenbaker made a small nod and marched off, sniffing the pockets of everyone around the area. "In the meantime," Fraser continued, "I think you should all hear this last piece of evidence we found. We've discovered Amanda Graystone's diary. It was removed from her house after she was murdered."

"So that's what was missing in that photo," Stottlemeyer realized.

"Yes, Captain," Fraser nodded, "Her last entry in it is very intriguing from many fronts. Detective Monk, I'll let you do the honors of reading it for our pleasure."

"Thank you, Constable," Adrian took hold of the book with his wipe, which was falling apart by now from extended use. "It's dated four days ago," he told everyone after flipping to the last page with writing on it, "Dear diary, I saw on the news tonight that Trevor's wife and son were abducted. It was just too much of a coincidence for me. I called him up and told him he'd gone too far. He didn't say outright that he did it, but everything he said convinced me he'd arranged for his wife to end up like this. On top of it, he had the gall to ask me out to dinner after saying that it was probably for the better that she was out of his life. If I'd known he'd be that cold-hearted in trying to win me, I'd've steered clear of him when I had the chance. He warned me he'd do something he'd regret if I told anyone with a badge. Oh God, I feel like I'm in a vise! I've got to tell somebody, before his wife gets hurt!"

There was a growling from Diefenbaker at the exact moment Adrian finished reading the entry. The wolf had clamped down on something in Trevor's pocket. Trevor tried to jerk away, but Diefenbaker had already gotten a good grip and yanked it out. A remote detonator clanked to the runway. "I don't think I really need to say much more, Trevor," Adrian gave him a harsh look.

"Well Detective Monk, as much as I hate to say it, good work," Ford said, an unhappy smile on his face over having been proven wrong on several fronts by the detective. He and Deeter pulled out handcuffs and advanced toward Trevor. "All right Fleming, you have the right to remain silent, anything you say…"

In a flash, Trevor drew a gun from his pocket and shot both federal agents in the chest. Ford and Deeter went down hard. Before anyone else could react, the suspect had grabbed his son and placed the barrel up against his temple. "All of you, drop your weapons or I'll shoot him, I swear!" he threatened them all.

"Do it," Stottlemeyer urged the feds. There was a loud clatter of guns being tossed on the ground. "Lieutenant Disher, my money if you please!" Trevor told him. Disher tossed the briefcase toward him. "You might think you're so smart, Monk, but the truth is you're nothing but a freak!" Trevor snarled at him, "You hear me, you're a damn retard, a genetic mistake!"

"And he's more of a father to Benjy than you are, Trevor!" Stottlemeyer shouted.

"That's enough from you, Captain!" Trevor yelled at him, "Now I'm leaving with MY son and MY money, and no one's going to stop me!"

"Except me!" an absolutely livid Sharona stepped into her once again ex-husband's path, "You take your filthy hands off him, you degenerate son of a…!"

"Uh, Sharona, there's kids around," Adrian pointed out.

Sharona nodded then turned her full wrath on Trevor. "You said you'd learned your lesson, and then you have the gall to stab me in the back like this?" she shrieked in his face.

"Let's get something straight right now, Sharona: YOU backstabbed ME!" Trevor shouted back with equal anger, "I took you in, I loved you like no one else, and how do you repay me? You walk out on me and leave me flat broke!"

"Oh my God, there you go again, blaming the whole world except yourself!" Sharona yelled, "You brought your own problems on yourself, cheating on me with every former girlfriend you had! And then you dared to use Benjy and me to extort money off your uncle! You never learn ANY lesson!"

"Actually I did learn one lesson; never give you any money, Sharona. I was destitute from your damn alimony demands!"

"Which you never paid, Trevor! The courts made it clear you had to give…!"

"May I intercede for a moment?" Fraser asked.

"NO!" both Sharona and Trevor yelled at him simultaneously. "Why should I have even bothered paying, Sharona?" Trevor bellowed at her, "Every time I'd give you what you'd ask for, you'd shove both your hands in my face and demand even more! And then you had the indecency to sick the mob on me to get it!"

"I didn't sick the mob on you Trevor! Fat Tony did that to try and impress me; or at least when I thought he was trying to impress me!"

"Yep, you can definitely tell they've been married a while," Vecchio commented to Fraser.

"And you really expect me to believe that? If there's one thing you do good, Sharona, it's lying your head off to tear me and everyone else you hate down!" Trevor yelled, "You had a field day of painting yourself as the poor innocent little girl ruined by the adulterous monster you made me out to be during those custody hearings! Well I knew the truth then, and I still know it now; you're now and forever a slut!"

"How dare you…!" Sharona stepped toward him.

"GET…BACK!" Trevor pointed the gun in her face. Faced with a firearm, Sharona backed off. "You're nothing but a petty thief, Sharona!" Trevor said darkly, shifting the barrel toward her chest, "You stole my money, you stole my son, you stole my life! You've had this coming for a long time!"

And with that he pulled the trigger. "MOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!" Benjy shrieked as she crumpled to the ground. He tried to run to her, but his father grabbed him up. "Come on Benjy, we've leaving!" he growled, turning to leave.

"Oh no you don't!" shouted Zuko. The mob boss landed a combination on the FBI agent guarding him and stormed over to his treacherous client. "That's my money!" he bellowed to Trevor, grabbing hold of the briefcase, "You owe me all of it; that was our deal!"

"Well the deal's off, Frank!" Trevor shouted back, pulling the briefcase back, "You lose!"

"I don't think so!" Zuko whistled loudly. A dozen new mobsters popped out of nowhere and charged forward, guns raised. "As Detective Monk and Constable Fraser can vouch for, I filled up this airport with my friends, just in case the cops showed up…or if you tried to run with the cash as I suspected," Zuko told Trevor confidently, "Now are you willing to accept my deal?"

There was a tense silence. What none of them noticed was Vecchio picking his gun back up. "Okay, all of you freeze!" he yelled at the villains, "Let the kid go and drop the money!"

The mobsters opened fire on him. The federal agents picked their weapons back up and returned fire. Trevor and Zuko yanked the briefcase back and forth until it broke open, spilling the ransom money all over the ground. Both men hastily scooped up as much cash as they could and ran for their lives, Trevor dragging Benjy with him. Adrian ran over to Sharona where she lay, gasping heavily. Fraser was examining her. "How bad is it, Constable?" he asked, his voice high with fright.

"Serious but thankfully not life threatening," Fraser told him, "Had he aimed a few inches higher, it would have been the end. Lieutenant?"

"Yes?" Disher called, running over.

"Care to Mrs. Fleming, make sure the wound is not infected," Fraser instructed him, "I'm going after Zuko."

He ran off past the baggage carts. "Adrian," Sharona sputtered to him, "Save him. I'm begging you, save Benjy."

"I will," Adrian said, filling with deep resolve, "For you I will. Don't let anything happen to her, Randy."

"I won't," Disher nodded firmly. Adrian rose up and dashed across the runway toward the sound of a plane engine starting.

The firefight was going heavily in favor of the law. Although the mobsters had strong firepower, the federal agents and police outnumbered them, and many were now surrendering. Vecchio, seeing the situation was in hand, ran after Fraser and Zuko, and quickly caught up with the Mountie. "Give it up, Frankie!" he yelled after his enemy, "We've got your men! There's nowhere for you to go!"

Gunfire ripped back toward them, causing them to dive behind barrels. "You want me Ray?" Zuko yelled in the darkness, "You'll never take me alive!"

There was a trumpeting from the end of the runway. A large form was sauntering toward them, its trunk raised high. "Out of my way, Dumbo!" Zuko yelled. Fraser heard his gun click. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Zuko!" he shouted.

"Buzz off, Constable!" Zuko yelled back. He fired straight at the elephant. Trumpeting in rage, it charged toward him and picked him up in its trunk. "Put me down you overgrown suitcase!" Zuko ordered it. The elephant complied with his wishes; it pounded Zuko repeatedly into the ground, and then tossed him a quarter of a mile through the air. "I told you not to do it," Fraser called to the mobster as he landed hard, "Elephants can be quite aggressive if harmed."

He and Vecchio rushed over to where Zuko had landed. The mob kingpin was heavily stunned, but otherwise seemed okay. "Guess what, Frankie?" Vecchio told his adversary as he handcuffed him, "After all these years, I finally got you. Now you and your buddy Scott Peterson have got a date with six big hairy cellmates who'd love to make the two of you their girlfriends. Any last words before we lock you up?"

"I hate elephants!" Zuko groaned, "I should have never bought it!"

Vecchio grinned. "You know Frankie, somewhere up there, I just know Irene's smiling right about now, because she's finally been given peace," he told Zuko, hauling him to his feet, "Let's get you into a nice soft squad car."

In the meantime, Adrian was running as fast as he could across the runway, jumping as far as he could over an oil slick at one point. He noticed a plane labeled AIR URUGUAY heading down the warm-up lane for takeoff. He made a beeline for it, just managing to grab on to the door as the plane started accelerating down the runway. He tried to pull it open, but the G-forces were making it hard for him. It was then that the plane lifted off into the night sky, leaving the detective hanging on for dear life with his eyes tightly shut. He considered the logic of what he was attempting to do: climb into a claustrophobic, germ-riddled plane several thousand feet in the air, trying to stop a man with a severe cold—a man who still had a gun, while he himself was weaponless. But it was too late to back out now. Already they were close to a thousand feet over Chicago. Adrian yanked on the handle and finally pulled the door open. Praying he wouldn't fall, he swung himself into the plane, closing the door tight behind him. "Give yourself up, Trevor!" he shouted toward the cockpit, "It's all over!"

A hand snaked through the door and fired several shots at him. Adrian jumped behind the nearest row of seats on the port side. "And I suppose you're going to try and stop me, Monk?" Trevor sounded like he might break into laughter, "You can forget it, Monk; against you, I've already won!"

"No Trevor, you've already lost!" Adrian yelled back, "You've lost everything; family, friends, trust, and all because you couldn't stay honest!"

"And who do you think you are, trying to tell me what to do?" Trevor dared him, "You think that just cause Sharona worked for you, you have authority over me?"

"Who do I think I am?" Adrian fiddled with the tray table locks on the back of the seats in front of him until they were all perfectly vertical, "I'll tell you who I am, Trevor. Like the captain said, I'm Benjy's dad, and I'm here to protect him, as any real father would! Now come along quietly, and I'll go as easy on you as I can!"

A cold hand grabbed his shoulder. "You want a piece of me, Monk?" Trevor whispered in his ear, "That can be arranged."

"Shouldn't you be flying the plane?" Adrian gulped.

"It's on autopilot, so I'm all right…but you're not." Trevor spun Adrian around and decked him right in the face. "Come on, hotshot, you said you wanted me, give me your best—ACHOO!--shot!" he shouted, hauling the detective roughly to his feet. Adrian raised his hand, but was unable to go any further in hitting him. "No?" Trevor inquired, "OK, it's my turn then!"

He started giving Adrian a relentless series of combination punches. "How does it feel now, mister smart guy?" Trevor snarled, shoving him over the top of another row of seats, "You're not so strong now, are you, you cowardly little chicken!"

"I'm not the chicken, Trevor, you are!" Adrian still at least had his self-dignity, "You had to hide behind gangsters to kill off the woman you'd sworn to love for the rest of your life! If that isn't cowardice, I don't know what is! Sharona did nothing to hurt you or anything to deserve this!"

"Read the whole story Monk; she had it coming for years!" Trevor roared, hauling him up again and slugging him even more, "The truth is she stole Benjy from me, and I'm just taking him back! That's not vengeance, that's justice!"

"It IS vengeance, Trevor; there's no lying in justice!" Adrian said, trying as hard as he could to shield himself from the blows, "How could you Vaderize like this!"

"If you want to put it that way, I'm not going to tell you, Monk!" Trevor punched him through the door into the cockpit. Adrian landed hard against the control panel. Before he could get up, Trevor was standing right over him, deliberately breathing into his face. He groaned and turned his head, praying he now wasn't contaminated. Until he heard the gun click. "What it all comes down to, Monk," Trevor said, pointing the barrel right between his eyes, "Is that there's one bullet left in this gun, and guess who's going to get it."

"NO!" from the passenger seat, Benjy grabbed his father's hand, causing the last bullet to hit the control panel instead. Roaring in rage, Trevor lifted his son up and violently tossed him into the aisle. "I'll teach you not to butt in to what's not your business, son!" he bellowed, removing his belt.

A wave of indignation over Trevor's act swept Adrian. The next few seconds happened in slow motion from his viewpoint. The detective found himself rising up and balling his hand into a tight fist. He grabbed Trevor's shoulder, shouted, "No you won't!" at the top of his lungs, and threw the punch as hard as he could. It connected directly to Trevor's temple. Trevor reeled backwards, smacked his head hard off an overhead bin, and slumped unconscious to the floor. Adrian breathed heavily, not believing what he'd just done. All he knew was that he'd touched a person with a cold, and as far as he could tell was all right.

"Mr. Monk, that was incredible!" Benjy had picked himself up and rushed over to his older friend, "Are you all right?"

"I guess so, Benjy," Adrian nodded, "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No. Not physically at…where're you going now?"

"Wash off," Adrian ran for the plane's bathroom. He unleashed a torrent of water onto his hands, then emptied almost all of the available soap onto them. He rubbed his hands back and forth wildly for three full minutes, and then splashed some more water onto his face; hopefully it would dispel any of the germs Trevor had breathed on him.

It was then that he heard the plane's engines starting to sputter. He quickly realized what had happened. "Oh no!" he groaned, running for the cockpit. The entire control panel was on fire. "I think something's happened to the engines," Benjy summed up what he already knew, "That shot must have…"

"I know," Adrian glanced out the window. Lake Michigan, in all its polluted glory, lay directly below them—not the place he'd want to ditch a plane. "Uh, we're going to need parachutes," he told the boy.

"I don't think they have them, Mr. Monk; they do have flotation devices, though," Benjy pointed out.

"But not enough time to test them all," Adrian said desperately, "It looks like…!"

"Constable Fraser's coming!" Benjy pointed out the window. A police helicopter was pulling up along the starboard side, and there was no mistaking that red uniform. Adrian ran to the door and threw it open. "Is everything in order, Adrian?" the Mountie called over to him.

"Uh, everything's fine, except for the fact the pilot's out cold and we're going to crash and all that," Adrian called back.

"Bring Benjy over here, Monk," Stottlemeyer had joined Fraser for the rescue, "We'll get you out of there."

"Right; Benjy, we're jumping!" Adrian shouted to the boy. He already had his reservations about jumping between aircraft, but it was, in his opinion, better than a toxic watery grave. He picked Benjy up as he approached and, after judging the distance between the crafts, tossed him through the air. Fraser caught the boy and handed him to an attending cop. "Come on Adrian, your turn," he called over.

"One minute," Adrian's gaze had fallen to where Trevor lay slumped. As much as he hated the man for everything he'd done, he couldn't just leave him there to die. He ran over to Trevor and dragged his body—by the knees, which he figured was the least germful place he could touch—toward the door, and started handing him over to Stottlemeyer…

When his plane gave a harsh lurch to the left and started spiraling toward the lake. Adrian found himself tumbling out the door and hanging on to Trevor's legs for dear life a thousand miles above the lake. He was shrieking at the top of his lungs now. "Pull me up, pull me up!" he screamed to the officers on board the helicopter.

"Hang on Monk, we'll bring you up!" he heard Stottlemeyer call out, "Constable, see if you can get his wrists!"

"Hold still, Adrian!" Fraser yelled, reaching down to pull the detective's wrists up. "Not too hard, you'll break something!" Adrian protested. His eyes were tightly shut again. But he needn't have bothered, for in a few seconds he could feel Fraser and Stottlemeyer's hands pulling him on board the helicopter. "My God, what did he do to you, Monk?" his captain asked, seeing his heavily punched face.

"It's a long story, Captain," Adrian said, "Are we on the ground yet?"

"Monk, let me just say that what you did just now is the most heroic thing I've ever seen you do, and that's taking into account everything I've see you do," Stottlemeyer commended him, "If I could…"

There was a loud rumbling below as the jet hit the lake and sunk under it. "Oh my," Fraser said, surveying the wreck, "Had you and the boy been on board, Adrian, I'd say you'd be pretty much deceased at the moment. Care to take a look?"

"No thanks, Constable, I can see it well from here."

"You haven't opened your eyes yet, Monk."

"I know, Captain; have we landed yet?"

* * *

"So really, how does it feel working for Adrian Monk?" Sharona asked a recovered Natalie the next afternoon at the Midway Airport coffee ship.

"It's a strange feeling," Natalie admitted, "He's unlike anyone I've ever met before—and I don't know yet if I mean that in a good or bad way."

"Neither did I for a while," Sharona told her, "It's a little had to figure him out at times. But always keep in mind that even though he may annoy the hell out of you a lot, he's got a heart of gold underneath. He's someone you can always count on if you need help."

"I know," Natalie nodded, "Still, can I call you if I need advice on how to work with him? I'm not entirely sure I can handle him on my own yet."

"Here's my cell," Sharona wrote the number down on a scrap piece of paper and handed it to her, "Call me in a week or tow; I'll give you a more permanent number then."

"Attention all passengers, American Flight 674 non-stop to San Francisco is now boarding at Gate 34," announced the PA system. Both women rose up—Natalie on crutches, Sharona with a cane—and hobbled over toward the metal detectors, where everyone else was waiting. "I have some good news, Sharona," Fraser told her, "Your kidnappers are currently denouncing each other in jail like there's no tomorrow, so convicting them in a court of law should be no problem whatsoever, and I assume you're going to take the stand and describe your ordeal for the court?"

"You know it," Sharona nodded emphatically, "Anything to make sure those goons stay behind bars for the rest of their lives."

"Which reminds me," Fraser leaned down toward Benjy, who'd been buried in his latest issue of Spiderman since they'd arrived at the airport, "I'd just like to say I'm genuinely sorry things turned out the way they did for you."

"It's OK," Benjy said stoically, "He's still my dad. I'll always love him for that."

Fraser smiled. "I think that's a very noble way of looking at the situation, Benjamin," he said, "Forgiveness is a trait that is borne to the truly powerful."

"That's why he's the only man in my life I can trust," Sharona said, giving her son's hair an affectionate rubbing, "Where's Adrian? I want to say goodbye before…"

"Out! Out!" came the screaming from the bookstore down the corridor. The manager pushed Adrian out of his store. "They weren't in the right order!" Adrian protested to him.

"I'm sorry, really I am," Vecchio apologized to the manager, "Nobody has any control over the guy." He glared at Adrian once the manager had left. "Thank God you're going!" the Chicago cop told him, "I can't take it anymore!"

"But you did enjoy him, didn't you Detective?" Stottlemeyer had joined them outside.

"Well," Vecchio shrugged, "I guess I sort of did. I mean, he added a little flavor to this case." He took Adrian by the shoulders. "Good luck back in San Francisco, Detective Monk," he said, "And if you come back this way again, please, stay out of my city."

"I'll do what I can," Adrian nodded.

"Well, it looks like our flight's ready to roll," Stottlemeyer looked up at the information on the board, "We'd better get going."

"Let me just say something first, Captain," Adrian told him. Stottlemeyer nodded and walked threw the metal detector. Adrian walked over to Sharona. "Well, I guess this is…again…you're sure you don't want to come back?" he asked her.

"I appreciate the offer, Adrian, but I'd like to take my in another direction," Sharona told him, "Right now I just want to get back to New Jersey and get my life back on track. But don't worry too much; I WILL visit you one of these days."

"I'd like that, I'd like that a lot," Adrian smiled, "I want you to know, I'm grateful for everything you did for me over those years you looked after me, and that, as much as I hate change and letting go, I wish you the best in whatever you end up doing."

"Thank you, Adrian," she smiled back, "Thank you for everything you've done. You'll be fine with Natalie, I know it, so don't worry about me."

"I'll try not to," he said, and then in an unexpected move hugged her. "Ow, ow, ow!" Sharona groaned.

"I know, it's breaking me up inside as…" he said.

"Not that, the gunshot wound; you're aggravating it!" she shouted, clutching her chest.

"Oh, sorry," Adrian let go. "So long, Mr. Monk, and thanks," Benjy leaned up against him, "You're my hero."

"Thank you Benjy," Adrian found himself smiling at the level he had when Trudy had accepted his marriage proposal. He turned his gaze lastly toward Fraser. "And thank you, Constable Fraser," he said, daring to shake the Mountie's hand, "I couldn't have solved it without you."

"Nor could I have without you," Fraser told him, "As I said, keep your self esteem high, Adrian, because you're a good man."

"I know," Adrian nodded, "And if you ever have another case here you can't solve…"

"Oh God, no, not again!" Vecchio groaned at the thought of another Adrian experience.

"That's quite all right Ray, I think the two of us could probably solve it," Fraser told him, "It has been an honor serving with you, Adrian Monk," he told the Detective, "If you ever need a vacation, I'd be happy to take you up to my new cabin in Nunavut. It's nice and quiet, with few germs to catch your distaste."

"At the beginning of this case, I might have said no, but maybe I will some day," Adrian said, "See you later, Benton."

"Godspeed, Adrian," Fraser tipped his Stetson at the detective as he followed his associates through the metal detector—and was immediately buzzed. The Mountie turned to Vecchio and the Flemings. "So, what will we do now that he's leaving?" he asked them.

"Go home, jump in bed, and pretend his being here was all a bad dream," Vecchio said.

"Well I don't think that's very fair, Ray; Detective Monk's presence in this case, as I mentioned before was decisive in its successful outcome," Fraser reminded him.

"Fraser, may I point out to you that his involvement cost me yet another mint condition '71 Riv?" Vecchio told him, "If I ever have to go out to San Francisco, I'll have a stroke."

"Uh, I think we'd like to eat," Sharona interrupted them, "I've only had one meal since you rescued me, remember?"

"Indeed I do," Fraser said, "What do you think, Ray; should we go have that Unos meal we were going to have before this case?"

"Actually that sounds good, Benny," Vecchio's mood improved. "Whatdya say kid, you want a fresh, deep dish Chicago style Unos pizza?" he asked Benjy, "It'll be on me."

"Great, let's go," Benjy rushed toward the door. From the concourse, Adrian watched as the Mountie, the cop, and the woman he cared for followed him away. He took a deep breath—but one of renewal. Now that he'd said goodbye formally, he felt much better than he had in a long time.

"You coming, Monk?" Disher whispered in his ear.

"Oh yeah, sure," Adrian turned and walked after the others. "Well, all in all I say this was a good trip for us," he commented out loud.

"Not for me," Julie reminded him, "Aren't you forgetting what I went through?"

"Oh, yes, I meant apart from you, Julie," Adrian said quickly.

"And now comes the fun part," Natalie said in a less than positive tone, "Four hours going back home, and with the time zones it'll take longer. If it's anything like coming here…"

"I promise I won't try and put the overhead bags in size order again," Adrian raised his hand as if taking an oath.

"That goes with the other passengers too, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, "And try to keep in mind that if a person reclines in front of you, you can't ask him to raise his seat just to be even with the others in his row."

"I've got it, I've got it," the detective nodded.

"It's a shame I we didn't get a chance to see Shermer," Disher lamented, "And I really wanted to take a picture of the Home Alone house too. I had one picture left in the camera, and…"

"Can I have it?" Adrian took it from Disher and walked over to the stewardess at the gate. "Excuse me, could you smile?" he asked her, and took a picture of her before she could react. "What was that all about?" she demanded.

"You'll thank me later," Adrian told her. He walked back over to Disher and gave him his camera back. "Now you've got the whole roll," he told him.

"Thanks, Monk," Disher shrugged, sitting down.

"Good job, superstar," came Trudy's voice from behind him. She was standing behind the nearest row of seats with Fraser Senior. "Thank you, Trudy," he smiled at her. His gaze shifted to the dead Mountie. "Why are you still here?" he asked him.

"I just wanted to offer my congratulations on solving the case the way you did, Detective Monk," Fraser Senior lauded him, "I'll be going off to celebrate with Benton, and I just wanted to wish you good luck in all future endeavors."

"You too, Mr. Fraser," Adrian told him. Fraser Senior tipped his hat and walked off into the crowd. "You haven't…?" Adrian had to ask Trudy.

"No," Trudy told him encouragingly, "You're the only one for me in this and every lifetime. It looks like you're boarding now."

"So are you coming?" her husband asked her.

"Of course," she said, "I think it would make you feel more comfortable than your last flight in. We might as well get going."

"Indeed," Adrian said, taking her by her ghostly hand and walking down the walkway toward the plane, "The best part of any vacation is going home, after all."

THE END


End file.
